


JfcWLF 



""IHIIIf |f| 

8 4 104 s 



Jfc 





- 71 r 



Kepplier 



COUNTER-CURRENTS. 

AMERICANS AND OTHERS. 

A HAPPY HALF-CENTURY AND OTHER 
ESSAYS. 

IN OUR CONVENT DAYS 

COMPROMISES. 

THE FIRESIDE SPHINX. With 4 full-page 
and 17 text Illustrations by Miss E. BONSALL. 

BOOKS AND MEN. 

POINTS OF VIEW 

ESSAYS IN IDLENESS. 

IN THE DOZY HOURS, AND OTHER PA 
PERS. 

ESSAYS IN MINIATURE. 

A BOOK OF FAMOUS VERSE. Selected 
by Agnes Repplier. In Riverside Library 
for Young People. 
THE SAME. Holiday Edition. 

VARIA. 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
BOSTON AND NEW YORK 



IN OUR CONVENT DAYS 



IN OUR 
CONVENT DAYS 

BY 

AGNES REPPLIER, Lrrr.D. 




BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
$ tejtf Cambridge 



COPYRIGHT 1905 BY AGNES REPPLIKR 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



Published October 



TBMTIf IMPRESSION 



! 



To " Elizabeth " Robins Pennell 

" Thou know st that we two went to school 
together." 

Junus 



481.723 



Introduction 

IT has been many years since I 
went to school. Everything has 
changed in the Convent that I 
loved, and I am asked to believe that 
every change is for the better. I do 
not believe this at all. I am unmoved 
by the sight of steam registers and 
electric lights. I look with disfavour 
upon luxuries which would have 
seemed to us like the opulence of 
Aladdin s palace. I cannot wax en 
thusiastic over the intrusion of Mr. 
Matthew Arnold and Mr. Pater upon 
the library shelves, where Chambers 
Miscellany used to be our nearest 
approach to the intellectual. The old 
order changes, and that unlovely word, 
modernity, is heard within the tran 
quil convent walls. Even the iron 
hand of discipline has been relaxed; 

vii 



Introduction 

for the long line of girls whom I now 
watch filing sedately in and out of the 
chape] have been taught to rule them 
selves, to use their wider liberty with 
discretion. I wonder how they like 
it. I wonder if liberty, coupled with 
discretion, is worth having when one 
is eleven years old. I wonder if it be 
the part of wisdom to be wise so 
soon. 

The friends whom I loved are scat 
tered far and wide. When Tony died, 
she took with her the sound of laugh 
ter into the silent land, and all things 
have seemed more sober since she 
left. To those who live, these pages 
will, I hope, bring back the sentiment 
of our early days. We made one an 
other s world then, a world full of 
adventures, and imaginings, and sweet 
absurdities that no one of us would 
now wish less absurd. Our succes 
sors to-day know more than we knew 
(they could not well know less), they 

viii 



\ 
Introduction 

have lectures, and enamelled bath 
tubs, and "Essays in Criticism;" but 
do they live their lives as vehemently 
as we lived ours; do they hold the 
secrets of childhood inviolate in their 
hearts as we held them in ours; are 
they as untainted by the common 
place, as remote from the obvious, as 
we always were; and will they have 
as vivid a picture of their convent 
days to look back upon, as the one 
we look at now? 

A. R. 



Contents 

Marianus I 

The Convent Stage 36 

In Retreat 72 

Un Conge sans Cloche 107 

Marriage Vows 148 

Reverend Mother s Feast 183 

The Game of Love 220 



I 



Marianus 

DO not know how Marianus ever 
came to leave his native land, 
nor what turn of fate brought 
him to flutter the dovecotes of a con 
vent school. At eleven, one does not 
often ask why things happen, because 
nothing seems strange enough to pro 
voke the question. It was enough for 
me it was enough for all of us 
that one Sunday morning he appeared 
in little Peter s place, lit the candles 
on the altar, and served Mass with 
decent and devout propriety. Our 
customary torpor of cold and sleepi 
ness Mass was at seven, and the 
chapel unheated yielded to a warm 
glow of excitement. I craned my 
white-veiled head (we wore black 
veils throughout the week and white 
on Sundays) to see how Elizabeth was 



*ir : Convent Days 

taking this delightful novelty. She 
was busy passing her prayer-book, 
with something evidently written on 
the fly-leaf, to Emily Goring on the 
bench ahead. Emily, oblivious of con 
sequences, was making telegraphic 
signals to Marie. Lilly and Viola Mil 
ton knelt staring open-mouthed at the 
altar. Tony was giggling softly. Only 
Annie Churchill, her eyes fixed on 
her Ursuline Manual, was thumping 
her breast remorsefully, in unison 
with the priest s " mea maxima culpa." 
There was something about Annie s 
attitude of devotion which always 
gave one a distaste for piety. 

Breakfast afforded no opportunity 
for discussion. At that Spartan meal, 
French conversation alone was per 
mitted; and even had we been able 
or willing to employ the hated me 
dium, there was practically no one 
to talk to. By a triumph of monastic 
discipline, we were placed at table, 



Marianus 

at our desks, and at church, next to 
girls to whom we had nothing to say; 
good girls, with medals around 
their necks, and blue or green ribbons 
over their shoulders, who served as 
insulating mediums, as non-conduc 
tors, separating us from cheerful cur 
rents of speech, and securing, on the 
whole, a reasonable degree of deco 
rum. I could not open my bursting 
heart to my neighbours, who sat 
stolidly consuming bread and butter 
as though no wild light had dawned 
upon our horizon. When one of them 
(she is a nun now) observed pains 
takingly, "J espere que nous irons 
aux bois apres midi ; " I said " Oui," 
which was the easiest thing to say, 
and conversation closed at that point. 
We always did go to the woods on 
Sunday afternoons, unless it rained. 
During the week, the big girls 
the arrogant and unapproachable First 
Cours assumed possession of them 
3 



In Our Convent Days 

as an exclusive right, and left us only 
Mulberry Avenue in which to play 
prisoner s base, and Saracens and 
Crusaders; but on Sundays the situa 
tion was reversed, and the Second 
Cours was led joyously out to those 
sweet shades which in our childish 
eyes were vast as Epping Forest, and 
as full of mystery as the Schwarz- 
wald. No one could have valued this 
weekly privilege more than I did; 
but the day was clear, and we were 
sure to go. I felt the vapid nature of 
Mary Rawdon s remark to be due 
solely to the language in which it was 
uttered. All our inanities were spoken 
in French; and those nuns who un 
derstood no other tongue must have 
conceived a curious impression of our 
intelligence. 

There was a brief recreation of 

fifteen minutes at ten o clock, which 

sufficed for a rapturous exchange of 

confidences and speculations. Only 

4 



Marianus 

those who have been at a convent 
school can understand how the total 
absence of man enriches him with a 
halo of illusion. Here we were, seven 
absurdly romantic little girls, living 
in an atmosphere of devout and rari- 
fied femininity j and here was a tall 
Italian youth, at least eighteen, sent 
by a beneficent Providence to thrill 
us with emotions. Was he going to 
stay? we asked with bated breath. 
Was he going to serve Mass every 
morning instead of Peter? We could 
not excite ourselves over Peter, who 
was a small, freckle-faced country 
boy, awkwardly shy, and I should 
judge of a saturnine disposition. 
We had met him once in the avenue, 
and had asked him if he had any 
brothers or sisters. " Naw," was the 
reply. " I had a brother wanst, but 
he died; got out of it when he 
was a baby. He was a cute one, 
he was." A speech which I can only 
5 



In Our Convent Days 

hope was not so Schopenhauerish as 
it sounds. 

And now, in Peter s place, came 
this mysterious, dark-eyed, and alto 
gether adorable stranger from beyond 
the seas. Annie Churchill, who, for 
all her prayerfulness, had been fully 
alive to the situation, opined that he 
was an " exile," and the phrase smote 
us to the heart. We had read " Eliza 
beth; or the Exile of Siberia," it 
was in the school library, and here 
was a male Elizabeth under our rav 
ished eyes. " That s why he came to 
a convent," continued Annie, follow 
ing up her advantage; "to be hidden 
from all pursuit." 

"No doubt he did," said Tony 
breathlessly, " and we 11 have to be 
very careful not to say anything about 
him to visitors. We might be the 
occasion of his being discovered and 
sent back." 

This thought was almost too painful 
6 



Marianus 

to be borne. Upon our discretion de 
pended perhaps the safety of a heroic 
youth who had fled from tyranny and 
cruel injustice. I was about to propose 
that we should bind ourselves by a 
solemn vow never to mention his pre 
sence, save secretly to one another, 
when Elizabeth not the Siberian, 
but our own unexiled Elizabeth ob 
served with that biting dryness which 
was the real secret of her ascendency: 
" We d better not say much about 
him, anyway. On our own account, I 
mean." Which pregnant remark 
the bell for " Christian Instruction " 
ringing at that moment sent us si 
lent and meditative to our desks. 

So it was that Marianus came to the 
convent, and we gave him our seven 
young hearts with unresisting enthusi 
asm. Viola s heart, indeed, was held 
of small account, she being only ten 
years old; but Elizabeth was twelve, 
and Marie and Annie were thirteen, 
7 



In Our Convent Days 

ages ripe for passion, and remote from 
the taunt of immaturity. It was under 
stood from the beginning that we all 
loved Marianus with equal right and 
fervour. We shared the emotion fairly 
and squarely, just as we shared an 
occasional box of candy, or any other 
benefaction. It was our common se 
cret, our fatal secret, we would 
have said, and must be guarded 
with infinite precaution from a cold 
and possibly disapproving world; but 
no one of us dreamed of setting up a 
private romance of her own, of ex 
tracting from the situation more than 
one sixth leaving Viola out of its 
excitement and ecstasy. 

We discovered in the course of time 
our exile s name and nationality, it 
was the chaplain who told us, and 
also that he was studying for the priest 
hood; this last information coming 
from the mistress of recreation, and 
being plainly designed to dull our 
8 



Marianus 

interest from the start. She added 
that he neither spoke nor under 
stood anything but Italian, a statement 
which we determined to put to the 
proof as soon as fortune should favour 
us with the opportunity. The posses 
sion of an Italian dictionary became 
meanwhile imperative, and we had 
no way of getting such a thing. We 
could n t write home for one, because 
our letters were all read before they 
were sent out, and any girl would be 
asked why she had made this singular 
request. We could n t beg our mothers, 
even when we saw them, for diction 
aries of a language they knew we were 
not studying. Lilly said she thought 
she might ask her father for one, the 
next time he came to the school. There 
is a lack of intelligence, or at least of 
alertness, about fathers, which makes 
them invaluable in certain emergen 
cies; but which, on the other hand, is 
apt to precipitate them into blunders. 
9 



In Our Convent Days 

Mr. Milton promised the dictionary, 
without putting any inconvenient 
questions, though he must have been 
a little surprised at the scholarly na 
ture of the request; but just as he 
was going away, he said loudly and 
cheerfully: 

" Now what is it I am to bring you 
next time, children? Mint candy, and 
handkerchiefs, your Aunt Helen 
says you must live on handkerchiefs, 
and gloves for Viola, and a diction 
ary?" 

He was actually shaking hands with 
Madame Bouron, the Mistress Gen 
eral, as he spoke, and she turned to 
Lilly, and said : 

" Lilly, have you lost your French 
dictionary, as well as all your handker 
chiefs?" 

" No, madame," said poor Lilly. 

" It s an Italian dictionary she 
wants this time," corrected Mr. Mil 
ton, evidently not understanding why 
10 



Marianus 

Viola was poking him viciously in 
the back. 

" Lilly is not studying Italian. None 
of the children are," said Madame 
Bouron. And then, very slowly, and 
with an emphasis which made two of 
her hearers quake : " Lilly has no need 
of an Italian dictionary, Mr. Milton. 
She had better devote more time and 
attention to her French." 

" I nearly fainted on the spot," said 
Lilly, describing the scene to us after 
wards; " and father looked scared, and 
got away as fast as he could; and 
Viola was red as a beet; and I thought 
surely Madame Bouron was going to 
say something to me; but, thank Hea 
ven ! Eloise Didier brought up her aunt 
to say good-by, and we slipped off. Do 
you think, girls, she 11 ask me what I 
wanted with an Italian dictionary?" 

" Say you re going to translate 
Dante in the holidays," suggested 
Tony, with unfeeling vivacity, 
ii 



In Our Convent Days 

" Say you re going to Rome, to see 
the Pope," said Marie. 

" Say you re such an accomplished 
French scholar, it s time you turned 
your attention to something else," 
said Emily. 

" Say you re making a collection of 
dictionaries," said the imp, Viola. 

Lilly looked distressed. The hu 
mours of the situation were, perhaps, 
less manifest to her perturbed mind. 
But Elizabeth, who had been thinking 
the matter over, observed gloomily: 
"Oh, Boots " (our opprobrious epithet 
for the Mistress General) "won t 
bother to ask questions. She knows 
all she wants to know. She 11 just 
watch us, and see that we never get a 
chance to speak to Marianus. It was 
bad enough before, but it will be 
worse than ever now. He might al 
most as well be in Italy." 

Things did seem to progress slowly, 
considering the passionate nature of 



12 



Marianus 

our devotion. Never was there such 
an utter absence of opportunity. From 
the ringing of the first bell at quarter 
past six in the morning to the lower 
ing of the dormitory lights at nine 
o clock at night, we were never alone 
for a moment, but moved in orderly 
squadrons through the various duties 
of the day. Marianus served Mass 
every morning, and on Sundays as 
sisted at Vespers and Benediction. 
Outside the chapel, we never saw him. 
He lived in " Germany," a name 
given, Heaven knows why, to a farm 
house on the convent grounds, which 
was used as quarters for the chaplain 
and for visitors ; but though we cast 
many a longing look in its direction, 
no dark Italian head was ever visible 
at window or at door. I believe my 
own share of affection was beginning 
to wither under this persistent blight, 
when something happened which not 
only renewed its fervour, but which 
13 



In Our Convent Days 

thrilled my heart with a grateful sen 
timent, not wholly dead to-day. 

It was May, a month dedicated 
to the Blessed Virgin, and fuller than 
usual of church-going, processions, 
and hymns. We were supposed to be, 
or at least expected to be, particularly 
obedient and studious during these 
four weeks; and, by way of incentive, 
each class had its candle, tied with 
the class colour, and standing amid 
a lovely profusion of spring flowers 
on the Madonna s altar. There were 
six of them: white for the graduates, 
purple for the first class, blue for the 
second, red for the third, green for 
the fourth, and pink for the fifth, 
the very little girls, for whom the dis 
cipline of school life was mercifully 
relaxed. All the candles were lighted 
every morning during Mass, unless 
some erring member of a class had, by 
misconduct the day before, forfeited 
the honour, not only for herself, but 
H 



Marianus 

for her classmates. These tapers were 
my especial abhorrence. The laudable 
determination of the third class to 
keep the red-ribboned candle burning 
all month maddened me, both by the 
difficulties it presented, and by the 
meagre nature of the consequences 
involved. I could not bring myself 
to understand why they should care 
whether it were lit or not. To be sent 
downstairs to a deserted music-room, 
there to spend the noon recreation hour 
in studying Roman history or a French 
fable; that was a penalty, hard to 
avoid, but easy to understand. Com 
mon sense and a love of enjoyment 
made it clear that no one should lightly 
run such risks. But I had not imagi 
nation enough to grasp the importance 
of a candle more or less upon the 
altar. It was useless to appeal to my 
love for the Blessed Virgin. I loved 
her so well and so confidently, I had 
placed my childish faith in her so long, 
15 



In Our Convent Days 

that no doubt of her sympathy ever 
crossed my mind. My own mother 
might side with authority. Indeed, she 
represented the supreme, infallible 
authority, from which there was no ap 
peal. But in every trouble of my poor 
little gusty life, the Blessed Mother 
sided with me. Of that, thank Hea 
ven! I felt sure. 

This month my path was darkened 
by a sudden decision on Elizabeth s 
part that our candle should not be 
once extinguished. Elizabeth, to do 
her justice, did not often incline to 
virtue; but when she did, there was 
a scant allowance of cakes and ale for 
any of us. She never deviated from 
her chosen course, and she never 
fully understood the sincere but falli 
ble nature of our unkept resolutions. 
I made my usual frantic, futile effort 
to follow her lead, with the usual 
melancholy failure. Before the first 
week was over, I had come into col- 
16 



Marianus 

lision with authority (it was a matter 
of arithmetic, which always soured 
my temper to the snapping point) ; 
and the sixth of May saw five candles 
only burning at the veiled Madonna s 
feet. I sat, angry and miserable, while 
Madame Duncan, who had charge of 
the altar, lit the faithful five, and re 
tired with a Rhadamanthine expres 
sion to her stall. Elizabeth, at the end 
of the bench, looked straight ahead, 
with an expression, or rather an en 
forced absence of expression, which I 
perfectly understood. She would not 
say anything, but none the less would 
her displeasure be made chillingly 
manifest. Mass had begun. The priest 
was reading the Introit, when Mari 
anus lifted a roving eye upon the 
Blessed Virgin s altar. It was not 
within his province; he had nothing 
to do with its flowers or its tapers; but 
when did generous mind pause for 
such considerations ? He saw that one 
7 



In Our Convent Days 

candle, a candle with a drooping scar 
let ribbon, was unlit; and, promptly 
rising from his knees, he plunged into 
the sacristy, reappeared with a burn 
ing wax-end, and repaired the error, 
while we held our breaths with agita 
tion and delight. Madame Duncan s 
head was lowered in seemly prayer; 
but the ripple of excitement commu 
nicated itself mysteriously to her, and 
she looked up, just as Marianus had 
deftly accomplished his task. For an 
instant she half rose to her feet; and 
then the absurdity of re-attacking the 
poor little red candle seemed to dawn 
on her (she was an Irish nun, not des 
titute of humour), and with a fleet 
ing smile at me, a smile in which 
there was as much kindness as amuse 
ment, she resumed her interrupted 
devotions. 

But I tucked my crimson face into 
my hands, and my soul shouted with 
joy. Marianus, our idol, our exile, the 
18 



Marianus 

one true love of our six hearts, had 
done this deed for me. Not only was 
I lifted from disgrace, but raised to 
a preeminence of distinction; for had 
I not been saved by him? Oh, true 
knight! Oh, chivalrous champion of 
the unhappy and oppressed ! When I 
recall that moment of triumph, it is 
even now with a stir of pride, and of 
something more than pride, for I am 
grateful still. 

That night, that very night, I was 
just sinking into sleep when a hand 
was laid cautiously upon my shoulder. 
I started up. It was too dark to see 
anything clearly, but I knew that the 
shadow by my side was Elizabeth. 
"Come out into the hall," she whis 
pered softly. " You had better creep 
back of the beds. Don t make any 
noise!" and without a sound she 
was gone. 

I slipped on my wrapper, night 
gowns gleam so perilously white, 
9 



In Our Convent Days 

and with infinite precaution stole be 
hind my sleeping companions, each 
one curtained safely into her little 
muslin alcove. At the end of the dor 
mitory I was joined by another silent 
figure, it was Marie, and very 
gently we pushed open the big doors. 
The hall outside was flooded with 
moonlight, and by the open window 
crouched a bunch of girls, pressed 
close together, so close it was hard 
to disentangle them. A soft gurgle 
of delight bubbled up from one little 
throat, and was instantly hushed down 
by more prudent neighbours. Eliza 
beth hovered on the outskirts of the 
group, and, without a word, she 
pushed me to the sill. Beneath, lean 
ing against a tree, not thirty feet 
away, stood Marianus. His back was 
turned to us, and he was smoking. 
We could see the easy grace of his 
attitude, was he not an Italian ? 
we could smell the intoxicating fra- 
20 



Marianus 

grance of his cigar. Happily unaware 
of his audience, he smoked, and con 
templated the friendly moon, and 
wondered, perhaps, why the Fates 
had cast him on this desert island, as 
remote from human companionship 
as Crusoe s. Had he known of the six 
young hearts that had been given him 
unbidden, it would probably have 
cheered him less than we imagined. 

But to us it seemed as though our 
shadowy romance had taken form and 
substance. The graceless daring of 
Marianus in stationing himself beneath 
our windows, or at least beneath a 
window to which we had possible 
access; the unholy lateness of the 
hour, verging fast upon half-past 
nine; the seductive moonlight; the 
ripe profligacy of the cigar; what 
was wanting to this night s exquisite 
adventure! As I knelt breathless in 
the shadow, my head bobbing against 
Viola s and Marie s, I thought of Italy, 

21 



In Our Convent Days 

of Venice, of Childe Harold, of every 
thing that was remote, and beautiful, 
and unconnected with the trammels of 
arithmetic. I heard Annie Churchill 
murmur that it was like a serenade; 
I heard Tony s whispered conjecture 
as to whether the silent serenader 
really knew where we slept; than 
which nothing seemed less likely; 
I heard Elizabeth s warning " Hush ! " 
whenever the muffled voices rose too 
high above the stillness of the sleep 
ing convent; but nothing woke me 
from my dreams until Marianus slowly 
withdrew his shoulder from the sup 
porting tree, and sauntered away, 
without turning his head once in our 
direction. We watched him disap 
pear in the darkness; then, closing 
the window, moved noiselessly back 
to bed. "Who saw him first?" I 
asked at the dormitory door. 

"I did," whispered Elizabeth; "and 
I called them all. I did n t intend let- 

22 



Marianus 

ting Viola know ; but, of course, sleep 
ing next to Lilly, she heard me. She 
ought to be up in the Holy Child 
dormitory with the other little girls. 
It s ridiculous having her following 
us about everywhere." 

And, indeed, Viola s precocious 
pertinacity made her a difficult prob 
lem to solve. There are younger 
sisters who can be snubbed into im 
potence. Viola was no such weakling. 

But now the story which we thought 
just begun was drawing swiftly to its 
close. Perhaps matters had reached 
a point when something had to hap 
pen; yet it did seem strange it 
seems strange even now that the 
crisis should have been precipitated 
by a poetic outburst on the part of 
Elizabeth. Of all the six, she was 
the least addicted to poetry. She sel 
dom read it, and never spent long 
hours in copying it in a blank-book, 
as was our foolish and laborious cus- 
2 3 



In Our Convent Days 

torn. She hated compositions, and 
sternly refused the faintest touch of 
sentiment when compelled to express 
her thoughts upon " The First Snow 
drop," or " My Guardian Angel," or 
the "Execution of Mary, Queen of 
Scots." Tony wrote occasional verses 
of a personal and satiric character, 
which we held to sparkle with a bit 
ing wit. Annie Churchill had once 
rashly shown to Lilly and to me some 
feeble lines upon " The Evening Star." 
Deep hidden in my desk, unseen by 
mortal eye save mine, lay an impas 
sioned " Soliloquy of Jane Eyre," in 
blank verse, which was almost vol 
canic in its fervour, and which 
perished the following year, un- 
mourned, because unknown to the 
world. But Elizabeth had never 
shown the faintest disposition to write 
anything that could be left unwritten, 
until Marianus stirred the waters of 
her soul. That night, that moonlit 
24 



Marianus 

night, and the dark figure smoking in 
the shadows, cast their sweet spell 
upon her. With characteristic prompt 
ness, she devoted her French study 
hour the following afternoon to the 
composition of a poem, which was 
completed when we went to class, 
and which she showed me secretly 
while we were scribbling our dictee. 
There were five verses, headed "To 
Marianus," and beginning, 

" Gracefully up the long aisle he glides," 

which was a poetic license, as the 
chapel aisle was short, and Marianus 
had never glided up it since he came. 
He always in virtue of his office 
entered by the sacristy door. 

But realism was then as little known 
in literature as in art, and poetry was 
not expected to savour of statement 
rather than emotion. Elizabeth s mas 
terpiece expressed in glowing num 
bers the wave of sentiment by which 
25 



In Our Convent Days 

we were submerged. Before night it 
had passed swiftly from hand to hand, 
and before night the thunderbolt had 
fallen. Whose rashness was to blame 
I do not now remember; but, thank 
Heaven ! it was not mine. Some one s 
giggle was too unsuppressed. Some 
one thrust the paper too hurriedly into 
her desk, or dropped it on the floor, 
or handed it to some one else in a 
manner too obviously mysterious not 
to arouse suspicion. I only know that 
it fell into the hands of little Madame 
Davide, who had the eyes of a ferret 
and the heart of a mouse, and who, 
being unable to read a word of Eng 
lish, sent it forthwith to Madame Bou- 
ron. I only know that, after that brief 
and unsatisfactory glimpse in French 
class, I never saw it again; which is 
why I can now recall but one line 
out of twenty, a circumstance I 
devoutly regret. 

It was a significant proof of Madame 
26 



Marianus 

Bouron s astuteness that, without ask 
ing any questions, or seeking any fur 
ther information, she summoned six 
girls to her study that evening after 
prayers. She had only the confiscated 
poem in Elizabeth s writing as a clue 
to the conspiracy, but she needed no 
thing more. There we were, all duly 
indicted, save Viola, whose youth, 
while it failed to protect us from 
the unsought privilege of her society, 
saved her, as a rule, from any retrib 
utive measures. Her absence on this 
occasion was truly a comfort, as her 
presence would have involved the 
added and most unmerited reproach 
of leading a younger child into mis 
chief. Viola was small for her age, 
and had appealing brown eyes. There 
was not a nun in the convent who 
knew her for the imp she was. Lilly, 
gay, sweet, simple, generous, and un 
selfish, seemed as wax in her little 
sister s hands. 

27 



In Our Convent Days 

There were six of us, then, to bear 
the burden of blame; and Madame 
Bouron, sitting erect in the lamplight, 
apportioned it with an unsparing hand. 
Her fine face (she was coldly hand 
some, but we did not like her well 
enough to know it) expressed con 
temptuous displeasure; her words 
conveyed a somewhat exaggerated 
confidence in our guilt. Of Elizabeth s 
verses she spoke with icy scorn; 
she had not been aware that so gifted 
a writer graced the school; but the 
general impropriety of our behaviour 
was unprecedented in the annals of 
the convent. That we, members of 
the Society of St. Aloysius, should 
have shown ourselves so unworthy of 
our privileges, and so forgetful of our 
patron, was a surprise even to her; 
though (she was frankness itself) she 
had never entertained a good opinion 
either of our dispositions or of our in 
telligence. The result of such miscon- 
28 



tylarianus 

duct was that the chaplain s assistant 
must leave at once and forever. Not 
that he had ever wasted a thought 
upon any girl in the school. His heart 
was set upon the priesthood. Young 
though he was, he had already suffered 
for the Church. His father had fought 
and died in defence of the Holy See. 
His home had been lost. He was a 
stranger in a far land. And now he 
must be driven from the asylum he 
had sought, because we could not be 
trusted to behave with that modesty 
and discretion which had always been 
the fairest adornment of children 
reared within the convent s holy walls. 
She hoped that we would understand 
how grievous was the wrong we had 
done, and that even our callous hearts 
would bleed when we went to our 
comfortable beds, and reflected that, 
because of our wickedness and folly, 
a friendless and pious young student 
was once more alone in the world. 
29 



In Our Convent Days 

It was over! We trailed slowly up 
to the dormitory, too bewildered to 
understand the exact nature of our 
misdoing. The most convincing proof 
of our mental confusion is that our own 
immaculate innocence never occurred 
to any of us. We had looked one night 
out of the window at Marianus, and 
Elizabeth had written the five amorous 
verses. That was all. Not one of us 
had spoken a word to the object of our 
affections. Not one of us could boast a 
single glance, given or received. We 
had done nothing; yet so engrossing 
had been the sentiment, so complete 
the absorption of the past two months, 
that we, living in a children s world of 
illusions, " passionate after dreams, 
and unconcerned about realities," 
had deemed ourselves players of parts, 
actors in an unsubstantial drama, in 
truders into the realms of the forbid 
den. We accepted this conviction with 
meekness, untempered by regret; but 
30 



Marianus 

we permitted ourselves a doubt as to 
whether our iniquity were wholly 
responsible for the banishment of 
Marianus. The too strenuous pointing 
of a moral breeds skepticism in the 
youthful soul. When Squire Martin 
(of our grandfathers reading-books) 
assured Billy Freeman that dogs and 
turkey-cocks were always affable to 
children who studied their lessons and 
obeyed their parents, that innocent 
little boy must have soon discovered 
for himself that virtue is but a weak 
bulwark in the barnyard. We, too, 
had lost implicit confidence in the fine 
adjustments of life; and, upon this oc 
casion, we found comfort in incredu 
lity. On the stairs Elizabeth remarked 
to me in a gloomy undertone that 
Marianus could never have intended 
to stay at the convent, anyhow, and 
that he probably had been " sent for." 
She did not say whence, or by whom; 
but the mere suggestion was salve 
3 1 



In Our Convent Days 

to my suffering soul. It enabled me, 
at least, to bear the sight of Annie 
Churchill s tears, when, ten minutes 
later, that weak-minded girl slid into 
my alcove (as if we were not in trou 
ble enough already), and, sitting for 
lornly on my bed, asked me in a stifled 
whisper, " did I think that Marianus 
was really homeless, and could n t we 
make up a sum of money, and send it 
to him?" 

"How much have you got?" I 
asked her curtly. The complicated 
emotions through which I had passed 
had left me in a savage humour; and 
the peculiar infelicity of this proposal 
might have irritated St. Aloysius him 
self. We were not allowed the posses 
sion of our own money, though in view 
of the fact that there was ordinarily 
nothing to buy with it, extravagance 
would have been impossible. Every 
Thursday afternoon the " Bazaar" was 
opened; our purses, carefully marked 
32 



Marianus 

with name and number, were handed 
to. us, and we were at liberty to pur 
chase such uninteresting necessities as 
writing-paper, stamps, blank-books, 
pencils, and sewing materials. The 
sole concession to prodigality was a 
little pile of pious pictures, small 
French prints, ornamented with lace 
paper, which it was our custom to 
give one another upon birthdays and 
other festive occasions. They were 
a great resource in church, where 
prayer-books, copiously interleaved 
with these works of art, were passed 
to and fro for mutual solace and re 
freshment. 

All these things were as well known 
to Annie as to me, but she was too 
absorbed in her grief to remember 
them. She mopped her eyes, and said 
vacantly that she thought she had a 
dollar and a half. 

"I have seventy-five cents," I said; 
" and Elizabeth has n t anything. She 
33 



In Our Convent Days 

spent all her money last Thursday. 
We might be able to raise five dol 
lars amongst us. If you think that 
much would be of any use to Mari- 
anus, all you have to do is to ask 
Madame Bouron for our purses, and 
for his address, and see if she would 
mind our writing and sending it to 
him." 

Annie, impervious at all times to 
sarcasm, looked dazed for a moment, 
her wet blue eyes raised piteously to 
mine. " Then you think we could n t 
manage it? " she asked falteringly. 

But I plunged my face into my 
wash-basin, as a hint that the conver 
sation was at an end. I, too, needed 
the relief of tears, and was waiting 
impatiently to be alone. 

For Marianus had gone. Of that, 
at least, there was no shadow of 
doubt. We should never see him 
again; and life seemed to stretch be 
fore me in endless grey reaches of 
34 



Marianus 

grammar, and arithmetic, and French 
conversation ; of getting up early 
in the morning, uncheered by the 
thought of seeing Marianus serve 
Mass; of going to bed at night, with 
never another glance at that dark 
shadow in the moonlight. I felt that 
for me the page of love was turned 
forever, the one romance of my life 
was past. I cried softly and miser 
ably into my pillow; and resolved, 
as I did so, that the next morning 
I would write on the fly-leaves of 
my new French prayer-book and my 
" Thomas a Kempis" the lines: 

" Tis better to have loved and lost, 
Than never to have loved at all." 



The Convent Stage 

FROM this hour I do renounce 
the creed whose fatal worship 
of bad passions has led thee 
on, step by step, to this blood-guilti 
ness!" 

Elizabeth was studying her part. 
We were all studying our parts; but 
we stopped to listen to this glowing 
bit of declamation, which Elizabeth 
delivered with unbroken calm. " I 
drop down on my knees when I say 
that," she observed gloomily. 

We looked at her with admiring, 
envious eyes. Our own roles offered 
no such golden opportunities. Lilly s, 
indeed, was almost as easily learned 
as Snug s, being limited to three 
words, " The Christian slave ? " which 
were supposed to be spoken inter 
rogatively; but which she invariably 
36 



The Convent Stage 

pronounced as an abstract statement, 
bearing on nothing in particular. It- 
was seldom, however, that we insig 
nificant little girls of the Second Cours 
were permitted to take part in any 
play, and we felt to the full the honour 
and glory of our positions. " I come 
on in three scenes, and speak eleven 
times," I said, with a pride which I 
think now strongly resembled Mr. 
Rush worth s. " What are you, Tony ? " 

" A beggar ch ild," said Tony. " I cry 
Bread! bread! in piercing accents" 
(she was reading from the stage direc 
tions), "and afterwards say to Zara, 
that s Mary Orr, Our thanks are 
due to thee, noble lady, who from thy 
abundance feeds us once. Our love 
and blessings follow her who gave 
us daily of her slender store. 

"Is that all?" 

" The other beggar child says no 
thing but &lt; Bread! bread! " repliec 
Tony stiffly. 

37 



In Our Convent Days 

" What a lot of costumes to get up 
for so many little parts ! " commented 
Elizabeth, ever prone to consider the 
practical aspect of things. 

" I am dressed in rags," said Tony. 
" They ought n t to give much trou 
ble." 

" Lilly and I are to be dressed 
alike," I said. " Slaves of the royal 
household. Madame Ra}^burn said 
we were to wear Turkish trousers of 
yellow muslin, with blue tunics, and 
red sashes tied at the side. Won t we 
look like guys ? " 

I spoke with affected disdain and 
real complacency, gloating like Mr. 
Rushworth over the finery I pre 
tended to despise. Elizabeth stared 
at us dispassionately. " Lilly will look 
well in anything," she remarked with 
disconcerting candour, at which Lilly 
blushed a lovely rose pink. She knew 
how pretty she was, but she had that 
exquisite sweetness of temper which 

38 



The Convent Stage 

is so natural an accompaniment of 
beauty. Perhaps we should all be 
sweet-tempered if we could feel sure- 
that people looked at us with pleasure. 

"You will have to wear Turkish 
trousers, too," said Tony maliciously 
to Elizabeth; "and get down on your 
knees in them." 

" No, I won t," returned Elizabeth 
scornfully. " I m not a Turk. I m a 
Moorish princess, Zara s niece." 

" Moors and Turks are the same," 
said Tony with conviction. 

" Moors and Turks are not the 
same," said Elizabeth. " Turks live in 
Turkey, and Moors live Where 
abouts is this play, anyway, Marie ? " 

"Granada," said Marie. "The 
Spanish army, under Ferdinand and 
Isabella, is besieging Granada. I wish 
I were- a Moor instead of a pious Span 
ish lady. It would be a great deal 
more fun. I Ve always got pious 
parts." 

39 



In Our Convent Days 

This was true, but then most of the 
parts in our convent plays were pious, 
and if they were given to Marie, it 
was because she was so good an 
actress, the only one our Second 
Cours could boast. Elizabeth, indeed, 
had her merits. She never forgot her 
lines, never was frightened, never 
blundered. But her absolutely unemo 
tional rendering of the most heroic 
sentiments chilled her hearers hearts. 
Marie was fervid and impassioned. 
Her r-r s had the true Gallic roll. 
Her voice vibrated feelingly. She 
was tall for thirteen, without being 
hopelessly overgrown as Emily and 
I were. Strangest of all, she did not 
seem to mind the foolish and embar 
rassing things which she was obliged 
to do upon the stage. She would fling 
her arms around an aged parent, and 
embrace her fondly. She would ex 
pound the truths of Christianity, as 
St. Philomena. She would weep, and 
40 



The Convent Stage 

pray, and forgive her enemies, as the 
luckless Madame Elisabeth. What is 
more, she would do these things at 
rehearsals, in her short school frock, 
with unabated fervour, and without a 
shade of embarrassment. We recog 
nized her as a Heaven-sent genius, 
second only to Julia Reynolds and 
Antoinette Mayo (who I still think 
must have been the greatest of living 
actresses), yet in our secret souls we 
despised a little such absolute lack of 
self-consciousness. We were so awk 
ward and abashed when brought face 
to face with any emotion, so incapable 
of giving it even a strangled utterance, 
that Marie s absorption in her parts 
seemed to us a trifle indecent. It was 
on a par with her rapid French, her 
lively gestures, her openly expressed 
affection for the nuns she liked, and 
the unconcern with which she would 
walk up the long classroom, between 
two rows of motionless girls, to have 
41 



In Our Convent Days 

a medal hung around her neck on 
Sunday night at Primes. This hid 
eous ordeal, which clouded our young 
lives, was no more to Marie than 
walking upstairs, no more than 
unctuously repeating every day for 
a fortnight the edifying remarks of 
the pious Spanish lady. 

Plays were the great diversions of 
our school life. We had two or three 
of them every winter, presented, it 
seeiped to me, with dazzling splen 
dour, and acted with passionate fire. 
I looked forward to these perform 
ances with joyful excitement, I lis 
tened, steeped in delight, I dreamed 
of them afterwards for weeks. The 
big girls who played in them, and of 
whom I knew little but their names, 
were to me beings of a remote and 
exalted nature. The dramas them 
selves were composed with a view 
to our especial needs, or rather to 
our especial limitations. Their salient 
42 



The Convent Stage 

feature was the absence of courtship 
and of love. It was part of the con 
vent system to ignore the master pas 
sion, to assume that it did not exist, 
to banish from our work and from our 
play any reference to the power that 
moves the world. The histories we 
studied skipped chastely on from reign 
to reign, keeping always at bay this 
riotous intruder. The books we read 
were as free as possible from any taint 
of infection. The poems we recited 
were as serene and cold as Teneriffe. 
" Love in the drama," says an acri 
monious critic, " plays rather a heavy 
part." It played no part at all in ours, 
and I am disposed to look back now 
upon its enforced absence as an agree 
able elimination. The students of St. 
Omer so I have been told pre 
sented a French version of " Romeo 
and Juliet," with all the love scenes 
left out. This tour de force was be 
yond our scope; but "She Stoops to 
43 



In Our Convent Days 

Conquer," shorn of its double court 
ship, made a vivacious bit of comedy, 
and a translation of " Le Malade Ima- 
ginaire" expurgated to attenuation 
was the most successful farce of 
the season. 

Of course the expurgation was not 
done by us. We knew Goldsmith and 
Moliere only in their convent setting, 
where, it is safe to say, they would 
never have known themselves. Most 
of our plays, however, were original 
productions, written by some one of 
the nuns whose talents chanced to be 
of a dramatic order. They were, as a 
rule, tragic in character, and devout 
in sentiment, sometimes so exceed 
ingly devout as to resemble religious 
homilies rather than the legitimate 
drama. A conversation held in Pur 
gatory, which gave to three impris 
oned souls an opportunity to tell one 
another at great length, and with 
shameless egotism, the faults and fail- 
44 



The Convent Stage 

ings of their lives, was not to our 
way of thinking a play. We lis 
tened unmoved to the disclosures of 
these garrulous spirits, who had not 
sinned deeply enough to make their 
revelations interesting. It was like 
going to confession on a large and 
liberal scale. The martyrdom of St. 
Philomena was nearly as dull, though 
the saint s defiance of the tyrant Sym- 
phronius " persecutor of the inno 
cent, slayer of the righteous, despot 
whose knell has even this hour rung " 

lent a transient gleam of emotion; 
and the angel who visited her in prison 

and who had great difficulty get 
ting his wings through the narrow 
prison door was, to my eyes at least, 
a vision of celestial beauty. 

What we really loved were histor 
ical dramas, full of great names and 
affecting incidents. Our crowning 
triumph (several times repeated) was 
"Zuma," a Peruvian play in which 
45 



In Our Convent Days 

an Indian girl is accused of poisoning 
the wife of the Spanish general, when 
she is really trying to cure her of a 
fever by giving her quinine, a drug 
known only to the Peruvians, and the 
secret of which the young captive has 
sworn never to divulge. " Zuma " 
was a glorious play. Its first produc 
tion marked an epoch in our lives. 
Gladly would we have given it a sea 
son s run, had such indulgence been 
a possibility. There was one scene 
between the heroine and her free and 
unregenerate sister, Italca, which left 
an indelible impression upon my 
mind. It took place in a subterranean 
cavern. The stage was darkened, and 
far-off music the sound of Spanish 
revelry floated on the air. Italca 
brings Zuma a portion of bark, suffi 
cient only for her own needs, for 
she too is fever-stricken, but, before 
giving it, asks with piercing scorn: 
" Are you still an Inca s daughter, of 
46 



The Convent Stage 

a Castilian slave ? " a question at 
which poor Zuma can only weep 
piteously, but which sent thrills of rap 
ture down my youthful spine. I have 
had my moments of emotion since 
then. When Madame Bernhardt as La 
Tosca put the lighted candles on either 
side of the murdered Scarpia, and laid 
the crucifix upon his breast. When 
Madame Duse as Magda turned sud 
denly upon the sleek Von Keller, and 
for one awful moment loosened the 
floodgates of her passion and her 
scorn : " You have asked after Emma 
and after Katie. You have not asked 
for your child." But never again has 
my soul gone out in such a tumult of 
ecstasy as when Zuma and Italca, 
Christian and Pagan sisters, the cap 
tive and the unconquered, faced each 
other upon our convent stage. 

And now for the first time I I, 
eleven years old, and with no shadowy 
claim to distinction was going to 
47 



In Our Convent Days 

take part in a play, was going to tread 
the boards in yellow Turkish trousers, 
and speak eleven times for all the 
school to hear. No fear of failure, 
no reasonable misgivings fretted my 
heart s content. Marie might scorn 
the Spanish lady s role ; but then Marie 
had played " Zuma," had reached 
at a bound the highest pinnacle of 
fame. Elizabeth might grumble at 
giving up our recreation hours to 
rehearsals; but then Elizabeth had 
been one of the souls in Purgatory, the 
sinfullest soul, and the most voluble 
of all. Besides, nothing ever elated 
Elizabeth. She had been selected 
once to make an address to the Arch 
bishop, and to offer him a basket of 
flowers; he had inquired her name, 
and had said he knew her father; yet 
all this public notice begot in her no 
arrogance of soul. Her only recorded 
observation was to the effect that, if 
she were an archbishop, she would n t 



The Convent Stage 

listen to addresses ; a suggestion which 
might have moved the weary and pa 
tient prelate more than did the ornate 
assurances of our regard. 

With this shining example of in 
sensibility before my eyes, I tried 
hard to conceal my own inordinate 
pride. Rehearsals began before we 
knew our parts, and the all-important 
matter of costumes came at once un 
der consideration. The "play-closet," 
that mysterious receptacle of odds 
and ends, of frayed satins, pasteboard 
swords, and tarnished tinsel jewelry, 
was soon exhausted of its treasures. 
Some of the bigger girls, who were 
to be Spanish ladies in attendance 
upon Queen Isabella, persuaded their 
mothers to lend them old evening 
gowns. The rest of the clothes we 
manufactured ourselves, " by the pure 
light of reason," having no models of 
any kind to assist or to disturb us. 

Happily, there were no Spanish men 
49 



In Our Convent Days 

in the play. Men always gave a good 
deal of trouble, because they might 
not, under any circumstances, be clad 
in male attire. A short skirt, reaching 
to the knee, and generally made of a 
balmoral petticoat, was the nearest 
compromise permitted. Marlow, that 
consummate dandy, wore, I remem 
ber, a red and black striped skirt, 
rubber boots, a black jacket, a high 
white collar, and a red cravat. The 
cravat was given to Julia Reynolds, 
who played the part, by her brother. 
It indicated Marlow s sex, and was 
considered a little indecorous in its ex 
treme mannishness. " They 11 hardly 
know what she " (Mrs. Potts) " is 
meant for, will they?" asks Mr. Snod- 
grass anxiously, when that estimable 
lady proposes going to Mrs. Leo 
Hunter s fancy ball as Apollo, in a 
white satin gown with spangles. To 
which Mr. Winkle makes indignant 
answer: "Of course they will. They ll 
50 



The Convent Stage 

see her lyre." With the same admi 
rable acumen, we who saw Marlow s 
cravat recognized him immediately as 
a man. 

Moors, and Peruvians, and ancient 
Romans were more easily attired. 
They wore skirts as a matter of 
course, looked a good deal alike, and 
resembled in the main the " Two 
Gentlemen of Verona," as costumed 
by Mr. Abbey. It is with much plea 
sure I observe how closely if how 
unconsciously Mr. Abbey has fol 
lowed our convent models. His Val 
entine might be Manco or Cleante 
strutting upon our school stage. His 
Titania is a white-veiled first commu 
nicant. 

The Turkish trousers worn by Lilly 
and by me also by Elizabeth, to her 
unutterable disgust were allowed 
because they were portions of femi 
nine attire. Made of rattling paper 
muslin, stiff, baggy, and with a hid- 
5 



In Our Convent Days 

ecus tendency to slip down at every 
step, they evoked the ribald mirth of 
all the other actors. Mary Orr, espe 
cially, having firmly declined a pair 
as part of Zara s costume, was moved 
to such unfeeling laughter at the first 
dress rehearsal that I could hardly 
summon courage to stand by Lilly s 
side. "The more you show people 
you mind a thing, the more they 11 
do it; " Elizabeth had once observed 
out of the profundity of her school 
experience, an experience which 
dated from her seventh year. Her 
own armour of assumed unconcern 
was provocation-proof. She had mis 
trusted the trousers from the begin 
ning, while I, thinking of Lalla Rookh 
and Nourmahal (ladies unknown to 
the convent library), had exulted in 
their opulent Orientalism. She had 
expressed dark doubts as to their fit 
and shape; and had put them on with 
visible reluctance, and only because 
5 2 



The Convent Stage 

no choice had been allowed her. The 
big girls arranged within limits 
their own costumes, but the little girls 
wore what was given them. Yet the 
impenetrable calm with which she 
presented herself dulled the shafts of 
schoolgirl sarcasm. You might as 
well have tried to cauterize a wooden 
leg to use Mirabeau s famous simile 
as to have tried to provoke Eliza 
beth. 

" Isabella of Castile " was a tragedy. 
Its heroine, Inez, was held a captive 
by the Moors, and was occupying her 
self when the play opened with the 
conversion to Christianity of Ayesha, 
the assumed daughter of the ever- 
famous Hiaya Alnayar, a splendid 
anachronism (at the siege of Granada), 
worthy of M. Sardou. Inez embodied 
all the Christian virtues, as presented 
only too often for our consideration. 
She was so very good that she could 
hardly help suspecting how good 
53 



In Our Convent Days 

she was 5 and she never spoke with 
out uttering sentiments so noble 
and exalted that the Moors simple 
children of nature hated her unaf 
fectedly, and made life as disagree 
able for her as they knew how. The 
powers of evil were represented by 
Zara, sister of Hiaya, and the ruling 
spirit of Granada. Enlightened criti 
cism would now call Zara a patriot; 
but we held sterner views. It was she 
who defied the Spaniards, who refused 
surrender, and who, when hope had 
fled, plotted the murder of Isabella. It 
was she who persecuted the saintly 
Inez, and whose dagger pierced Aye- 
sha s heart in the last tumultuous 
scene. A delightful part to act! I knew 
every line of it before the rehearsals 
were over, and I used to rant through 
it in imagination when I was supposed 
to be studying my lessons, and when 
I was lying in my little bed. There 
were glowing moments when I pic- 
54 



The Convent Stage 

tured to myself Mary Orr falling ill 
the, very day of the performance, Ma 
dame Rayburn in despair, everybody 
thunderstruck and helpless, and I 
stepping modestly forward to confess 
I knew the part. I saw myself sud 
denly the centre of attention, the for 
lorn hope of a desperate emergency, 
my own insignificant speeches handed 
over to any one who could learn them, 
and I storming through Zara s lines 
to the admiration and wonder of the 
school. The ease with which I sac 
rificed Mary Orr to this ambitious 
vision is pleasing now to contemplate; 
but I believe I should have welcomed 
the Bubonic plague, with the prospect 
of falling its victim the next day, to 
have realized my dreams. 

" One crowded hour of glorious life 
Is worth an age without a name." 

It was a pity that none of this dra 
matic fervour found expression in my 
own role, which, though modest, was 
55 



In Our Convent Days 

not without its possibilities. But I 
was ardent only in imagination, dra 
matic only in my dreams. When it 
came to words, I was tame and halt 
ing; when it came to gestures, I was 
awkward and constrained. In vain 
Madame Rayburn read and re-read 
me my lines, which, in her clear, 
flexible voice, took on meaning and 
purpose. In vain she sought to im 
press upon me my own especial char 
acteristics, a slavish spitefulness 
and servility. It was my privilege to 
appear in the first scene, and to make 
the first speech of any importance, 
to strike, as I was told, the keynote 
of the play. The rising curtain re 
vealed Ayesha (Julia Reynolds) in 
her father s palace; Lilly and I in 
attendance. 

Ayesha. Send hither Inez. 

Lilly. (Her one great effort.) The 
Christian slave? 

Ayesha (impatiently). Is there an- 

56 



The Convent Stage 

other Inez in the household? You 
may both retire. 

Obediently we bowed and retired; 
but on the threshold I remarked to 
Lilly in a bitter undertone, audible 
only to the house : " Ay ! ay, we 
may retire. And yet I think her noble 
kinsmen would deem our songs and 
tales better amusement for a winter s 
eve than all these whispered contro 
versies on the Christian faith that last 
sometimes the whole night through. 
I ve overheard them. But wait until 
Zara returns." 

"Try and say those last words 
threateningly," Madame Rayburn 
would entreat. " Remember you are 
going to betray Ayesha s secret. 
Wait until Zara returns. And you 
might clench your right hand. Your 
right hand. No, no, don t raise it. 
Julia, if you giggle so, I shall never be 
able to teach the children anything. 
You embarrass and confuse them. Try 
57 



In Our Convent Days 

once more: Wait until Zara returns. 
Now enter Inez. Lady, you sent for 



me. " 



Rehearsals were, on the whole, not 
an unmixed delight. A large circle 
of amused critics is hardly conducive 
to ease, and the free expression of 
dramatic force, at least, not when 
one is eleven years old, and painfully 
shy. I envied Marie her fervour and 
pathos, her clasped hands and uplifted 
eyes. I envied Elizabeth her business 
like repose, the steady, if somewhat 
perfunctory, fashion in which she 
played her part. I envied Lilly, who 
halted and stammered over her three 
words, but whose beauty made amends 
for all shortcomings. Yet day by day 
I listened with unabated interest to 
the familiar lines. Day by day the 
climax awoke in me the same senti 
ments of pity and exultation. More 
over, the distinction of being in the 
cast was something solid and satis- 
58 



The Convent Stage 

factory. It lifted me well above the 
heads of less fortunate, though cer 
tainly not less deserving, classmates. 
It enabled me to assume an attitude 
toward Annie Churchill and Emily 
which I can only hope they were 
generous enough to forgive. It was 
an honour universally coveted, and 
worth its heavy cost. 

The night came. The stage was 
erected at one end of our big study- 
room (classic-hall, we called it) ; the 
audience, consisting of the school and 
the nuns, for no strangers were ad 
mitted on these occasions, sat in 
serried ranks to witness our perform 
ance. Behind the scenes, despite the 
frenzy of suppressed excitement, there 
reigned outward order and tranquil 
lity. The splendid precision of our 
convent training held good in all emer 
gencies. We revolved like spheres in 
our appointed orbits, and confusion 
was foreign to our experience. I am 
59 



In Our Convent Days 

inclined to think that the habit of self- 
restraint induced by this gentle in 
flexibility of discipline, this exquisite 
sense of method and proportion, was 
the most valuable by-product of our 
education. There was an element of 
dignity in being even an insignificant 
part of a harmonious whole. 

At the stroke of eight the cur 
tain rose. Ayesha, reclining upon 
cushions, and wearing all the chains 
and necklaces the school could boast, 
listens with rapture to the edifying 
discourse of Inez, and confesses her 
readiness to be baptized. Inez gives 
pious thanks for this conversion, not 
forgetting to remind the Heavenly 
powers that it was through her agency 
it was effected. Into this familiar at 
mosphere of controversy the sudden 
return of Zara brings a welcome 
breath of wickedness and high re 
solve. Granada is doomed. Her days 
are numbered. The Spanish army, 
60 



The Convent Stage 

encamped in splendour, awaits her 
inevitable fall. Her ruler is weak and 
vacillating. Her people cry for bread. 
But Zara s spirit is unbroken. She 
finds Inez in whom every virtue 
and every grace conspire to exasper 
ate distributing her own portion of 
food to clamorous beggars, and sweeps 
her sternly aside: "Dare not again 
degrade a freeborn Moslem into a re 
cipient of thy Christian chanty." She 
vows that if the city cannot be saved, 
its fall shall be avenged, and that the 
proud Queen of Castile shall never 
enter its gates in triumph. 

Dark whispers of assassination fill 
the air. The plot is touching in its 
simplicity. Inez, a captive of rank, is 
to be sent as a peace offering to the 
Spanish lines. Ayesha and Zoraiya 
(Elizabeth) accompany her as pledges 
of good faith. Zara, disguised as a 
serving woman, goes with them, her 
soul inflamed with hate, her dagger 
61 



In Our Convent Days 

hidden in her breast. Ayesha is kept 
in ignorance of the conspiracy; but 
Zoraiya knows, knows that the 
queen is to be murdered, and that her 
own life will help to pay the penalty. 
" Does she consent ? " whispers a slave 
to me; to which I proudly answer: 
"Consent! Ay, gladly. If it be well 
for Granada that this Spanish queen 
should die, then Zara s niece, being 
of Zara s blood, thinks neither of pity 
nor precaution. She says she deals 
with the Castilian s life as with her 
own, and both are forfeited." 

The scene shifts by the help of 
our imagination, for scene-shifters we 
had none to Santa Fe, that marvel 
lous camp, more like a city than a 
battlefield, where the Spaniards lie 
entrenched. It is an hour of triumph 
for Inez, and, as might be expected, 
she bears herself with superlative and 
maddening sanctity. She is all the 
Cardinal Virtues rolled into one. 
62 



The Convent Stage 

To live with the Saints in Heaven 

Is untold bliss and glory ; 
But to live with the saints on earth 

Is quite another story. 

When I meanly currying favour 
beg her to remember that I have 
ever stood her friend, she replies with 
proud humility: "I will remember 
naught that I have seen, or heard, or 
suffered in Granada; and therein lies 
your safety." 

The role of Isabella of Castile was 
played by Frances Fenton, a large, 
fair girl, with a round face, a slow 
voice, and an enviable placidity of dis 
position; a girl habitually decorated 
with all the medals, ribbons, and me 
dallions that the school could bestow 
for untarnished propriety of beha 
viour. She wore a white frock of no 
ticeable simplicity (" so great a soul 
as Isabella," said Madame Rayburn, 
u could never stoop to vanity"), a 
blue sash, and a gold crown, which 
63 



In Our Convent Days 

was one of our most valued stage pro 
perties. Foremost among the ladies 
who surrounded her was Marie, other 
wise the Marchioness deMoya, mother 
of Inez, and also though this has 
still to be divulged of the long-lost 
Ayesha. It is while the marchioness is 
clasping Inez in her maternal arms, and 
murmuring thanks to Heaven, and all 
the other Spanish ladies are clasping 
their hands, and murmuring thanks 
to Heaven, that Zara sees her oppor 
tunity to stab the unsuspecting queen. 
She steals cautiously forward (my 
throbbing heart stood still), and draws 
the dagger a mother-of-pearl paper 
knife from the folds of her dress. 
But Ayesha, rendered suspicious by 
conversion, is watching her closely. 
Suddenly she divines her purpose, and, 
when Zara s arm is raised to strike, 
she springs forward to avert the blow. 
It pierces her heart, and with a gasp 
she falls dying at Isabella s feet. 
64 



The Convent Stage 

Every word that followed is en 
graven indelibly upon my memory. 
I have forgotten much since then, but 
only with death can this last scene be 
effaced from my recollection. It was 
now that Elizabeth was to make her 
vehement recantation, was to be con 
verted with Shakespearian speed. It 
was now she was to fall upon her 
knees, and abjure Mohammedanism 
forever. She did not fall. She took 
a step forward, and knelt quietly and 
decorously by Ayesha s side, as if for 
night prayers. Her volcanic language 
contrasted strangely with the imper 
turbable tranquillity of her demean 
our. 

Zoralya. Oh ! Zara, thou hast slain 
her, slain the fair flower of Granada. 
The darling of Hiaya s heart is dead. 

Spanish Lady. The girl speaks 
truth. ? T was Zara s arm that struckc 

Zoraiya (conscientiously). From 
this hour I do renounce the creed 
65 



In Our Convent Days 

whose fatal worship of bad passions 
has led thee on, step by step, to this 
blood-guiltiness. 

Zara. Peace, peace, Zoraiya! De 
grade not thyself thus for one not of 
thy blood nor race. 

Zoraiya. Thy brother s child not 
of our blood nor race ! Thy crime has 
made thee mad. 

Zara. Thou shalt see. I would 
have word with the Marchioness de 
Moya. 

Marchioness de Moya (springing 
forward). Why namest thou me, 
woman? O Queen! why does this 
Moslem woman call on me? 

Isabella (with uplifted eyes). Pray, 
pray! my friend. Naught else can 
help thee in this hour which I see 
coming. For, oh! this is Heaven- 
ordained. 

Zara. Thou hadst a daughter? 

Marchioness de Moya. I have one. 

Zara. One lost to thee in infancy, 
66 



The Convent Stage 

when Hiaya stormed Alhama. If thou 
wouldst once again embrace her, take 
in thine arms thy dying child. 

Marchioness de Moya (unsteadity) . 
Thy hatred to our race is not un 
known. Thou sayest this, seeking to 
torture me. But know, \ were not 
torture, t were happiness, to believe 
thy words were words of truth. 

Zara. I would not make a Chris 
tian happy. But the words are spoken, 
and cannot be withdrawn. For the 
rest, Hiaya, whose degenerate wife 
reared as her own the captive child, 
will not dispute its truth, now that 
she is passing equally away from him 
and thee. 

Spanish Lady. Oh ! hapless 
mother ! 

Marchioness de Moya (proudly). 
Hapless ! I would not change my 
dying child for any living one in 
Christendom. 

And now, alas! that I must tell it, 



In Our Convent Days 

came the burning humiliation of my 
childhood. Until this moment, as the 
reader may have noticed, no one had 
offered to arrest Zara, nor staunch 
Ayesha s wound, nor call for aid, nor 
do any of the things that would natu 
rally have been done off the stage. 
The necessity of explaining the situ 
ation had overridden as it always 
does in the drama every other con 
sideration. But now, while the queen 
was busy embracing the marchioness, 
and while the Spanish ladies were 
bending over Ayesha s body, it was 
my part to pluck Zara s robe, and 
whisper: " Quick, quick, let us be 
gone! To linger here is death." To 
which she scornfully retorts : " They 
have no thought of thee, slave ; and, 
as for me, I go to meet what fate 
Allah ordains: " and slowly leaves the 
stage. 

But where was I ? Not in our con 
vent schoolroom, not on our convent 
68 



The Convent Stage 

stage; but in the queen s pavilion, 
witness to a tragedy which rent my 
soul in twain. Ayesha (I had a pas 
sionate admiration for Julia Rey 
nolds), lying dead and lovely at my 
feet; Marie s pitiful cry vibrating in 
my ears; and Zara s splendid scorn 
and hatred overriding all pity and 
compunction. Wrapped in the con 
templation of these things, I stood 
speechless and motionless, oblivious 
of cues, unaware of Zara s meaning 
glance, unconscious of the long, 
strained pause, or of Madame Ray- 
burn s loud prompting from behind 
the scenes. At last, hopeless of any 
help in my direction, Zara bethought 
herself to say: "As for me, I go to 
meet what fate Allah ordains : " and 
stalked off, which independent ac 
tion brought me to my senses with a 
start. I opened my mouth to speak, 
but it was too late; and, realizing the 
horror of my position, I turned and 
69 



In Our Convent Days 

fled, fled to meet the flood-tide of 
Mary Orr s reproaches. 

"Every one will think that I for 
got my lines," she stormed. " Did n t 
you see me looking straight at you, 
and waiting for my cue ? The whole 
scene was spoiled by your stupidity." 

I glanced miserably at Madame 
Rayburn. Of all the nuns I loved her 
best; but I knew her too well to ex 
pect any comfort from her lips. Her 
brown eyes were very cold and bright. 
" The scene was not spoiled," she said 
judicially; "it went off remarkably 
well. But I did think, Agnes, that, 
although you cannot act, you had too 
much interest in the play, and too 
much feeling for the situation, to for 
get entirely where you were, or what 
you were about. There, don t cry! 
It did n t matter much." 

Don t cry! As well say to the 
pent-up dam, " Don t overflow ! " or 
to the heaving lava-bed, " Don t leave 
70 



The Convent Stage 

your comfortable crater!" Already 
my tears were raining down over my 
blue tunic and yellow trousers. How 
could I poor, inarticulate child 
explain that it was because of my 
absorbing interest in the play, my 
passionate feeling for the situation, 
that I was now humbled to the dust, 
and that my career as an actress was 
closed? 



In Retreat 

WE were on the eve of a " spir 
itual retreat," four whole 
days of silence, and, in 
consideration of this fact, were enjoy 
ing the unusual indulgence of an 
hour s recreation after supper. The 
gravity of the impending change dis 
turbed our spirits, and took away 
from us such is the irony of fate 
all desire to talk. We were not pre 
cisely depressed, although four days 
of silence, of sermons, of " religious 
exercises," and examinations of con 
science, might seem reasonably de 
pressing. But on the other hand, 
happy adjustment of life s burdens^ 
we should have no lessons to study, 
no dictations to write, no loathsome 
arithmetic to fret our peaceful hearts. 
The absence of French for four whole 
72 



In Retreat 

days was, in itself, enough to sweeten 
the pious prospect ahead of us. Eliz 
abeth firmly maintained she liked 
making retreats; but then Elizabeth 
regarded her soul s perils with a less 
lively concern than I did. She was 
not cursed with a speculative tem 
perament. 

What we all felt, sitting silent 
and somewhat apprehensive in the 
lamplight, was a desire to do some 
thing outrageous, something which 
should justify the plunge we were 
about to make into penitence and 
compunction of heart. It was the 
stirring of the Carnival spirit within 
us, the same intensely human impulse 
which makes the excesses of Shrove 
Tuesday a prelude to the first solemn 
services of Lent. The trouble with 
us was that we did not know what to 
do. Our range of possible iniquities 
was at all times painfully limited. 
When I recall it, I am fain to think 
73 



In Our Convent Days 

of a pleasant conceit I once heard 
from Mr. Royce, concerning the in 
nocence of baby imps. Thanks to the 
closeness of our guardianship, and to 
the pure air we breathed, no little 
circle of azure-winged cherubim were 
ever more innocent than we ; yet there 
were impish promptings in every 
guiltless heart. Is it possible to look 
at those cheerful, snub-nosed angels 
that circle around Fra Lippo Lippi s 
madonnas, without speculating upon 
the superfluity of naughtiness that 
must be forgiven them day by day? 

" We might blow out the lights," 
suggested Lilly feebly. 

Elizabeth shook her head, and the 
rest of us offered no response. To 
blow out the schoolroom lamps was 
one of those heroic misdeeds which 
could be attempted only in moments 
of supreme excitement, when some 
breathless romping game had raised 
our spirits to fever pitch. It was ut- 
74 



In Retreat 

terly out of keeping with our present 
mood, and besides it was not really 
wrong, only forbidden under pen 
alties. We were subtle enough at 
least some of us were; nobody ex 
pected subtlety from Lilly to recog 
nize the difference. 

A silence followed. Tony s chin 
was sunk in the palm of her hand. 
When she lifted her head, her brown 
eyes shone with a flickering light. An 
enchanting smile curved her crooked 
little mouth. " Let s steal the straws 
from under the Bambino in the cor 
ridor," she said. 

We rose swiftly and simultaneously 
to our feet. Here was a crime, in 
deed; a crime which offered the two 
fold stimulus of pillage and impiety. 
The Bambino, a little waxen image we 
all ardently admired, reposed under 
a glass case in the wide hall lead 
ing to the chapel. He lay with his 
dimpled arms outstretched on a bed 



In Our Convent Days 

of symmetrically arranged straws; not 
the common, fuzzy, barnyard straws, 
but those large, smooth cylinders, 
through which all children love to 
suck up lemonade and soda water. 
Soda water was to us an unknown 
beverage, and lemonade the rarest of 
indulgences; but we had always cov 
eted the straws, though the unblessed 
thought of taking them had never en 
tered any mind before. Now, welcom 
ing the temptation, and adding deceit 
to all the other sins involved, we put 
on our black veils, and made demure 
pretence of going to the chapel to 
pray. Except to go to the chapel, 
five little girls would never have 
been permitted to leave the school 
room together; and, under ordinary 
circumstances, this sudden access of 
piety might have awakened reason 
able suspicions in the breast of the 
Mistress of recreation. But the im 
pending retreat made it seem all right 



In Retreat 

to her (she was no great student of 
human nature), and her friendly smile, 
as we curtsied and withdrew, brought 
a faint throb of shame to my perfidious 
soul. 

Once outside the door, we scuttled 
swiftly to the chapel hall. It was 
silent and empty. Tony lifted the 
heavy glass cover which protected 
the Bambino, the pretty, helpless 
baby we were going to ruthlessly rob. 
For a moment my inborn reverence 
conquered, and I stooped to kiss the 
waxen feet. Then, surging hotly 
through my heart, came the thought, 
a Judas kiss; and with a shudder I 
pulled myself away. By this time, I 
did n t want the straws, I did n t want 
to take them at all; but, when one 
sins in company, one must respect 
one s criminal obligations. " Honour 
among thieves." Hurriedly we col 
lected our spoils, ten shining tubes, 
which left horrid gaps in the Bam- 
77 



In Our Convent Days 

bino s bed. Then the case was low 
ered, and we stood giggling and whis 
pering in the corridor. 

" Let s " * said Tony. 

But what new villainy she medi 
tated, we never knew. The chapel 
door opened, it was Madame Bou- 
ron, and we fled precipitately back 
to the schoolroom. As we reached 
it, the clanging of a bell struck dolor 
ously upon our ears. Our last free 
hour was over, and silence, the un 
broken silence of four days, had fallen 
like a pall upon the convent. We 
took off our veils, and slipped limply 
into line for prayers. 

The next morning a new order of 
things reigned throughout the hushed 
school. The French conversation, 
which ordinarily made pretence of 
enlivening our breakfast hour, was 
exchanged for a soothing stillness. 
In place of our English classes, we 
had a sermon from Father Santarius, 



In Retreat 

some chapters of religious reading, 
and a quiet hour to devote to any 
pious exercise we deemed most pro 
fitable to our souls. Dinner and sup 
per were always silent meals, and 
one of the older girls read aloud to 
us, a pleasant and profitable cus 
tom. Now the travels of Pere Hue 

a most engaging book was laid 
aside in favour of Montalembert s 
" Life of St. Elizabeth of Hungary," 

which also had its charm. Many 
deficiencies there were in our educa 
tional scheme, it was so long ago, 

but the unpardonable sin of com- 
monplaceness could never be counted 
its shortcoming. After dinner there 
was an " instruction " from one of 
the nuns, and more time for private 
devotions. Then came our three- 
o clock gouter, followed by a second 
Instruction, Benediction, and the Ros- 
iry. After supper, Father Santarius 
preached to us again in the dimly lit 

79 



In Our Convent Days 

chapel, and our fagged little souls 
were once more forcibly aroused to 
the contemplation of their imminent 
peril. Death, Judgment, Hell, anc 
Heaven which the catechism say; 
are " the four last things to be re 
membered " were the subjects ol 
the four night sermons. Those were 
not days when soothing syrup was 
administered in tranquillizing doses 
from the pulpit. 

A sense of mystery attached itself 
to Father Santarius, attributable, I 
think, to his immense size? whicfe 
must have equalled that of St. Thomas 
Aquinas. It was said that he had not 
seen his own feet for twenty years 
(so vast a bulk intervened), and this 
interesting legend was a source of 
endless speculation to little, lean, 
elastic girls. He was an eloquent and 
dramatic preacher, versed in all the 
arts of oratory, and presenting a strik 
ing contrast to our dull and gentle 
80 



in Retreat 

chaplain, one of the kindest and most 
colourless of men, to whose sermons 
we had long ceased to listen very at 
tentively. We listened to Father San- 
tarius, listened trembling while he 
thundered his denunciations against 
worldliness, and infidelity, and pride 
of place, and many dreadful sins we 
stood in no immediate danger of com 
mitting The terrors of the Judgment 
Dav were unfurled before our startled 
eyes with the sympathetic apprecia 
tion of a fifteenth-century fresco, and 
the dead weight of eternity oppressed 
our infant souls. Father Santarius 
knew his Hell as well as did Dante, 
and his Heaven (but we had not yet 
come to Heaven) a great deal better. 
Moreover, while Dante s Hell was 
arranged for the accommodation of 
those whom he was pleased to put in 
it, Father Santarius s Hell was pre 
pared for the possible accommodation 
of us, which made a vast difference 
81 



In Our Convent Day&lt;&gt; 

in our philosophy. Perhaps a similar 
sense of liability might have softened 
the poet s vision. The third night s 
sermon reduced Annie Churchill to 
hysterical sobs; Marie was very 
white, and Elizabeth looked grave 
and uncomfortable. As for me, my 
troubled heart must have found ex 
pression in my troubled eyes, when I 
raised them to Madame Rayburn s 
face as we filed out of the chapel. 
She was not given to caresses, but 
she laid her hand gently on my black- 
veiled head. " Not for you, Agnes," 
she said, " not for you. Don t be fear 
ful, child! " thus undoing in one glad 
instant the results of an hour s hard 
preaching, and sending me comforted 
to bed. 

The next afternoon I was seated at 
my desk in the interval between an 
instruction on " human respect " 
which we accounted a heavy failing 
and Benediction. We were all of 
82 



In Retreat 

us to go to confession on the follow 
ing- day; and, by way of preparation 
for this ordeal, I was laboriously ex 
amining my conscience, and writing 
down a list of searching questions, 
which were supposed to lay bare the 
hidden iniquities of my life, and to 
pave the way to those austere heights 
of virtue I hopefully expected to 
climb. It was a lengthy process, and 
threatened to consume most of the 
afternoon. 

" Is my conversation always char 
itable and edifying? " 

" Do I pride myself upon my tal 
ents and accomplishments ? " 

" Have I freed my heart from 
all inordinate affection for created 
things ? " 

" Do I render virtue attractive and 
pleasing to those who differ from me 
in religion ? " I wrote slowly in my 
little, cramped, legible hand. 

At this point Elizabeth crossed the 
83 



In Our Convent Days 

schoolroom, and touched me on the 
shoulder. She carried her coral ros 
ary, which she dangled before my 
eyes for a minute, and then pointed 
to the door, an impressive dumb show 
which meant that we should go some 
where, and say our beads together. 
There were times when the sign lan 
guage we used in retreat became as 
animated as conversation, and a great 
deal more distracting, because of the 
difficulty we had in understanding 
it; but the discipline of those four 
days demanded above all things that 
we should not speak an unnecessary 
word. We became fairly skilled in 
pantomime by the time the days 
were over. 

On the present occasion, Eliza 
beth s rosary gave its own message, 
and I alacritously abandoned my half- 
tilled conscience for this new field of 
devotion. We meant to walk up and 
down the chapel hall (past the de- 
84 



In Retreat 

spoiled Bambino), but at the school- 
rdom door we encountered Madame 
Rayburn. 

" Where are you going, children ? " 
she asked. 

This being an occasion for articu 
late speech, Elizabeth replied that we 
were on our way to the corridor to 
say our beads. 

" You had better be out of doors," 
Madame Rayburn said. "You look 
as if you needed fresh air. Go into 
the avenue until the bell rings for 
Benediction. No farther, remember, 
or you may be late. You had better 
take your veils with you to save 
time." 

This -was being treated with dis 
tinction. Sent out of doors by our 
selves, just as if we were First Cours 
girls, those privileged creatures 
whom we had seen for the last three 
days pacing gravely and silently up 
and down the pleasant walks. No 



In Our Convent Days 

such liberty had ever been accorded 
to us before, and I felt a thrill of pride 
when Julia Reynolds walking alone 
in the avenue raised her eyes from 
the " Pensees Chretiennes" of Ma 
dame Swetchine (I recognized its 
crimson cover, having been recently 
obliged to translate three whole pages 
of it as a penance), and stared at us 
with the abstract impersonal gaze of 
one engrossed in high spiritual con 
cerns. It was a grey day in early 
June, a soft and windless day, and, 
as we walked sedately under the big 
mulberry trees, a sense of exquisite 
well-being stole into my heart. I was 
conscious of some faint appreciation of 
the tranquillity that breathed around 
me, some dim groping after the mys 
tery of holiness, some recognizable 
content in the close companionship of 
my friend. I forgot that I was going 
to free myself from all inordinate af 
fection for created things, and knew 
86 



In Retreat 

only that it was pleasant to walk by 
Elizabeth s side. 

" Let us contemplate in this second 
joyful mystery the visitation of the 
Blessed Virgin Mary to her cousin, 
St. Elizabeth," she said. 

Why, there it was! The Blessed 
Virgin s cousin was named Elizabeth, 
too. Of course they were friends; 
perhaps they were very fond of each 
other; only St. Elizabeth was so much 
too old. Could one have a real friend, 
years older than one s self? My mind 
was wandering over this aspect of the 
case while I pattered my responses, 
and my pearl beads not half so 
pretty as Elizabeth s coral ones 
slipped quickly through my fingers. 
When we had finished the five de 
cades, and had said the Deprofundis 
for the dead, there was still time on 
our hands. The chapel bell had not 
yet rung. We walked for a few min 
utes in silence, and then I held up 
87 



In Our Convent Days 

my rosary as a suggestion that we 
should begin the sorrowful mysteries. 
But Elizabeth shook her head. 

" Let ? s have a little serious conver 
sation," she said. 

Not Balaam, when he heard the 
remonstrance of his ass, not Albertus 
Magnus, when the brazen head first 
opened its lips and spoke, was more 
startled and discomfited than I. Such 
a proposal shook my moral sense to 
its foundations. But Elizabeth s light 
blue eyes curiously light, by con 
trast with her dark skin and hair 
were raised to mine with perfect can 
dour and good faith. It was plain that 
she did not hold herself a temptress. 

"A little serious conversation," she 
repeated with emphasis. 

For a moment I hesitated. Three 
speechless days made the suggestion 
a very agreeable one, and I was in 
the habit of consenting to whatever 
Elizabeth proposed. But conversa- 
88 



In Retreat 

tion, even serious conversation, was 
a daring innovation for a retreat, and 
I was not by nature an innovator. 
Then suddenly a happy thought came 
to me. I had brought along my Ursu- 
Hne Manual (in those days we went 
about armed with all our spiritual 
weapons), and I opened it at a familiar 
page. 

" Let s find out our predominant 
passions," I said. 

Elizabeth consented joyfully. Her 
own prayer-book was French, a Pa- 
roissien Romain^ and the predomi 
nant passions had no place in it. She 
was evidently flattered by the mag 
nificence of the term, as applied to 
her modest transgressions. It was 
something to know at twelve 
that one was possessed of a passion 
to predominate. 

" We 11 skip the advice in the be 
ginning?" she said. 

I nodded, and Elizabeth, plunging, 
89 



In Our Convent Days 

as was her wont, into the heart of the 
matter, read with impressive solem 
nity : 

" The predominant passion of many 
young people is pride, which never 
fails to produce such haughtiness of 
manner and self-sufficiency as to ren 
der them equally odious and ridicu 
lous. Incessantly endeavouring to at 
tract admiration, and become the sole 
objects of attention, they spare no pains 
to set themselves off, and to outdo 
their companions. By their conceited 
airs, their forwardness, their confi 
dence in their own opinions, and 
neglect or contempt of that timid, 
gentle, retiring manner, so amiable 
and attractive in youth, they defeat 
their own purpose, and become as 
contemptible as they aim at being 
important." 

There was a pause. The descrip 
tion sounded so little like either of us 
that I expected Elizabeth to go right 
90 



In Retreat 

on to more promising vices. But she 
was evidently turning the matter over 
in her mind. 

" I think that s Adelaide Harri 
son s predominant passion," she said 
at length. 

Somewhat surprised, I acquiesced. 
It had not occurred to me to send my 
thoughts wandering over the rest of 
the school, or I should, perhaps, have 
reached some similar conclusion. 

" Yes, it s certainly Adelaide Har 
rison s passion," Elizabeth went on 
thoughtfully. " You remember how 
she behaved about that composition 
of hers, The Woods in Autumn, that 
Madame Duncan thought so fine. 
She said she ought to be able to write 
a good composition when her mother 
had written a whole volume of poems, 
and her brother had written some 
thing else, I don t remember what. 
That s what /call pride." 

" She says they are a talented fam- 
91 



In Our Convent Days 

ily," I added maliciously. (" Is my 
conversation always charitable and 
edifying? ") " That she taught herself 
to read when she was six years old, 
and that they all speak French when 
they are together. I don t believe 
that." 

"It must be horrid, if they do," 
said Elizabeth. " I m glad I m not 
one of them. Vous ne mangez rien, 
ma chere Adelaide. Est-ce que vous 
etes malade ? " 

"Helas! oui, mon pere. J ai peur 
que j etudie trop. Go on, Elizabeth, 
I m afraid the bell will ring." 

Thus adjured, Elizabeth continued: 
"There are many young people whose 
predominant passion is a certain ill- 
humour, fretfulness, peevishness, or 
irritability, which pervades their 
words, manners, and even looks. It 
is usually brought into action by such 
mere trifles that there is no chance of 
peace for those who live in the house 
92 



In Retreat 

with them. Even their best friends 
are not always secure from their ill- 
tempered sallies, their quarrelsome 
moods. Pettish and perverse, they 
throw a gloom over the gayest hour, 
and the most innocent amusement. 
As this luckless disposition is pecu 
liarly that of women, young girls can 
not be too earnestly recommended to 
combat the tendency in youth, lest 
they become, when older, the tor 
ment of that society they are intended 
to bless and ornament." 

Another pause, a short one this 
time. Elizabeth s eyes met mine with 
an unspoken question, and I nodded 
acquiescence. " Tony! " we breathed 
simultaneously. 

It was true. Tony s engaging quali 
ties were marred by a most prickly 
temper. We knew her value well. 
She played all games so admirably 
that the certainty of defeat modified 
our pleasure in playing with her. She 
93 



In Our Convent Days 

was fleet of foot, ready of wit, and 
had more fun in her little brown head 
than all the rest of us could muster. 
She would plunge us into abysses of 
mischief with one hand, and extricate 
us miraculously with the other. She 
was startlingly truthful, and lived no 
bly up to our wayward but scrupulous 
standard of schoolgirl honour, to the 
curious code of ethics by which we 
regulated our lives. She might have 
been Elizabeth s vice -regent; she 
might even have disputed the author 
ity of our constitutional sovereign, and 
have led us Heaven knows whither, 
had it not been for her pestilential 
quarrelsomeness. How often had she 
and I started out at the recreation 
hour in closest amity, and had re 
turned, silent and glowering, with the 
wide gravel walk between us. If she 
were in a fractious mood, no saint 
from Paradise could have kept the 
peace. Therefore, when Elizabeth 
94 



In Retreat 

looked at me, we said "Tony!" and 
then stopped short. She was our 
friend, one of the band, and though 
we granted her derelictions, we would 
not discuss them. We could be ribald 
enough at Adelaide Harrison s ex 
pense, but not at Tony s. 

" Why don t you lend her this 
book?" said Elizabeth kindly. 

I shook my head. I knew why very 
well. And I rather think Elizabeth 
did, too. 

By this time it looked as if we were 
going to fit the whole school with 
predominant passions, and not find 
any for ourselves; but the next line 
Elizabeth read struck a chill into my 
soul, and, as she went on, every word 
seemed like a barbed arrow aimed 
unswervingly at me. 

" A propensity to extravagant par 
tialities is a fault which frequently 
predominates in some warm, impetu 
ous characters. These persons are 
95 



In Our Convent Days 

distinguished by a precipitate selec 
tion of favourites in every society; by 
an overflow of marked attentions to 
the objects of their predilection, whose 
interests they espouse, whose very 
faults they attempt to justify, whose 
opinions they support, whether right 
or wrong, and whose cause they de 
fend, often at the expense of good 
sense, charity, moderation, and even 
common justice. Woe to him who 
ventures to dissent from them. The 
friendship or affection of such char 
acters does not deserve to be valued, 
for it results, not from discernment of 
merit, but from blind prejudice. Be 
sides, they annoy those whom they 
think proper to rank among their 
favourites by expecting to engross 
their whole attention, and by resent 
ing every mark of kindness they may 
think proper to show to others. How 
ever, as their affections are in general 
as short-lived as they are ardent, no 
96 



In Retreat 

one person is likely to be long tor 
mented with the title of their friend." 

I was conscious of two flaming 
cheeks as we walked for a moment 
in silence, and I glanced at Elizabeth 
out of the tail of my eye to see if she 
were summing up my case. It was n t 
true, it could n t be true, that extrava 
gant partialities (when they were my 
partialities) were short-lived. I was 
preparing to combat this part of the 
accusation whenElizabeth s cool voice 
dispelled my groundless fears. 

"I think that s silly," she said. 
" Nobody is like that." 

The suddenness of my relief made 
me laugh outright, and then, Oh, 
baseness of the human heart! I 
sought to strengthen my own position 
by denouncing some one else. " Not 
Annie Churchill ? " I asked. 

Elizabeth considered. "No, not 
even Annie Churchill. What makes 
you think of her?" 
97 



In Our Convent Days 

It was an awkward question. How 
could I say that two nights before the 
retreat, Annie had slipped into my 
alcove, a reprehensible habit she 
had, and, with an air of mystery, 
had informed me she was "trying to 
do something," she didn t like to 
tell me what, because she thought 
that maybe I was trying to do it, too. 
Upon my intimating that I was trying 
to go to bed, and nothing else that I 
knew of, she had said quite solemnly: 
" I am trying to gain Elizabeth s af 
fections." As it was impossible for 
me to adduce this piece of evidence 
(even an unsought confidence we held 
sacred), I observed somewhat lamely: 
" Oh, she does seem to get suddenly 
fond of people." 

"Who s she fond of?" asked the 
unsuspecting and ungrammatical 
Elizabeth. 

" Oh, do go on ! " I urged, and, even 
as I said it, the Benediction bell rang. 
98 



In Retreat 

A score of girls, serious, black-veiled 
young penitents, appeared, as if by 
magic, hastening to the chapel. We 
joined them silently, and filed into 
rank. Already my conscience was 
pricking. Had our " serious " conver 
sation been either charitable or edify 
ing? Was it for this that Madame 
Rayburn had sent us out to walk un 
der the mulberry trees? 

It pricked harder still this sore 
little conscience the next day, when 
Lilly came to me, looking downcast 
and miserable. "Madame Duncan 
said I might speak to you," she whis 
pered, "because it was about some 
thing important. It is important, very. 
Father Santarius is sure to tell us we 
must put those straws back, and I ve 
broken one of mine." 

Straws! I stared at her aghast. 

Where were my straws? I didn t 

know. I hadn t the faintest idea. I had 

lost them both, as I lost everything else, 

99 



In Our Convent Days 

except the empty head so firmly, yet 
so uselessly fixed upon my shoulders. 
It was really wonderful that a little 
girl who had only three places in the 
world in which to put anything 
a desk, a washstand drawer, and a 
japanned dressing-case (our clothes 
were all kept for us with exquisite 
neatness in the vestry) should not 
have known where her few posses 
sions were; but I could have lost 
them all in any of these receptacles, 
and never have found one of them 
again. When a mad scramble through 
my desk had furnished incontestable 
proof that no straws were there, and 
Lilly had departed, somewhat com 
forted by my more desperate case, I 
sat gloomily facing the complicated 
problem before me. I must confess 
my sin, I would be called upon to 
make restitution, and I had nothing 
to restore. The more I thought about 
it, the more hopeless I grew, and the 



100 



In Retreat 



more confused became my sense of 
proportion. If I had stolen the Bam 
bino himself, as a peasant woman, 
it is said, once stole the Baby of Ara- 
Cceli, I could not have felt guiltier. 
"Agnes," said Madame Rayburn s 
voice, "you had better go to the 
chapel now, and prepare for confes 



sion." 



She was looking down on me, and, 
as I rose to my feet, a light broke in 
upon my darkness. I knew where to 
turn for help. 

" If you ve taken a thing, and you 
have n t got it any more to give it 
back, what can you do?" I asked. 

The suddenness with which my 
query was launched (I always hated 
roundabout approaches) startled even 
this seasoned nun. " If you ve taken 
a thing," she echoed. " Do you mean 
stolen?" 

" Yes," I answered stolidly. 

She looked astonished for a mo- 

101 



In Our Convent Days 

ment, and then the shadow of a smile 
passed over her face. "Is it some 
thing you have eaten ? " she asked, 
" and that is why you cannot give it 
back?" 

I laughed a little miserable laugh. 
It was natural that this solution of 
the problem should present itself to 
Madame Rayburn s mind, albeit we 
were not in the fruit season. But 
then, it had once happened that a col 
lation had been set for the Archbishop 
and some accompanying priests in 
the conference room, and that Eliza 
beth, Lilly, and I, spying through a 
half-open door the tempting array of 
sandwiches and cake, had descended 
like Harpies upon the feast. This 
discreditable incident lingered, it was 
plain, in Madame Rayburn s memory, 
and prompted her question. 

" No, it was n t anything to eat," I 
said; and then, recognizing the clem 
ency of her mood (she was not always 



102 



In Retreat 

clement), I revealed the sacrilegious 
nature of my spoliation. " And I ve 
lost them, and can t put them back," I 
wound up sorrowfully. 

Madame Rayburn looked grave. 
Whether it was because she was 
shocked, or because she was amused 
and wanted to conceal her amuse 
ment, I cannot say. " Did you do this 
by yourself ? " she said; and then, see 
ing my face, added hastily: "No, I 
won t ask you that question. It is n t 
fair, and besides, I know you won t 
answer. But if there are any more 
straws in anybody s possession, I want 
you to bring them to me to-night. 
That s all. Now go to confession. 
Say you Ve told, and that it s all 
right." 

I was dismissed. With a light heart 
I sped to the chapel. To see one s 
way clear through the intricacies of 
life; to be sure of one s next step, and 
of a few steps to follow, at eleven, 
103 



In Our Convent Days 

or at threescore and ten, this is beati 
tude. 

It was Saturday morning when we 
emerged from retreat, a clear, warm 
Saturday in June. Mass was over, and 
we filed down in measureless content 
to the refectory. Because of our four 
days silence, we were permitted to 
speak our blessed mother tongue at 
breakfast time. Therefore, instead of 
the dejected murmur which was the 
liveliest expression of our Gallic elo 
quence, there rose upon the startled 
air a clamorous uproar, a high, shrill, 
joyous torrent of sound. A hundred 
girls were talking fast and furiously 
to make up for lost time. We had hot 
rolls for breakfast, too, a luxury re 
served for such special occasions; and 
we were all going to the woods in 
the afternoon, both First and Second 
Cours, going for two long, lovely 
hours, which would give us time to 
reach the farthest limits of our terri- 
104 



In Retreat 

tory. Elizabeth came and squeezed 
herself on the bench beside me, to 
propose a private search for the white 
violets that grew in the marshy 
ground beyond the lake, and that 
bloomed long after the wood violets 
had gone. Tony shouted across two 
intervening benches that she did n t 
see why we could not secure the boat, 
and have a row, as if the Second 
Cours girls were at all likely to get 
possession of the boat when the First 
Cours girls were around. " We can, 
if we try," persisted Tony, in whom 
four days of peaceful meditation had 
bred the liveliest inclination for a 
brawl. As for me, I ate my roll, and 
looked out of the window at the 
charming vista stretching down to 
the woods; and my spirits mounted 
higher and higher with the rising tide 
of joy, with the glad return to the 
life of every day. Heaven, an as 
sured hereafter, had receded com- 
105 



In Our Convent Days 

fortably into the dim future. Hell 
was banished from our apprehen 
sions. But, oh, how beautiful was the 
world I 



Un Conge sans Cloche 

WE had only two or three of 
them in the year, and their 
slow approach stirred us to 
frenzy. In the dark ages, when I went 
to school, no one had yet discovered 
that play is more instructive than 
work, no one was piling up statistics 
to prove the educational value of idle 
ness. In the absence of nature studies 
and athletics, we were not encouraged 
to spend our lives out of doors. In the 
absence of nerve specialists, we were 
not tenderly restrained from studying 
our lessons too hard. It is wonder 
ful how little apprehension on this 
score was felt by either mothers or 
teachers. We had two months sum 
mer holiday, July and August, 
and a week at Christmas time. The 
rest of the year we spent at school. 
107 



In Our Convent Days 

I have known parents so inhuman as 
to regret those unenlightened days. 

But can the glorified little children 
whose lives seem now to be one vast 
and happy playtime, can the privi 
leged schoolgirls who are permitted 
to come to town for a matinee, 
which sounds to me as fairy-like as 
Cinderella s ball, ever know the 
real value of a holiday? As well ex 
pect an infant millionaire to know the 
real value of a quarter. We to whom 
the routine of life was as inevitable 
as the progress of the seasons, we to 
whom Saturdays were as Mondays, 
and who grappled with Church his 
tory and Christian doctrine on plea 
sant Sunday mornings, ive knew the 
mad tumultuous joy that thrilled 
through hours of freedom. The very 
name which from time immemorial 
had been given to our convent holi 
days illustrated the fulness of their 
beatitude. When one lives under 
108 



Un Conge sans Cloche 

the dominion of bells, every hour 
rung in and out with relentless pre 
cision, sans cloche means glorious 
saturnalia. Once a nervous young 
nun, anxious at the wild scattering of 
her flock, ventured, on a conge, to ring 
them back to bounds; whereupon her 
bell was promptly, though not un 
kindly, taken away from her by two 
of the older girls. And when the 
case was brought to court, the Mis 
tress General upheld their action. A 
law was a law, as binding upon its 
officers as upon the smallest subject 
in the realm. 

The occasions for a conge sans 
cloche were as august as they were 
rare. " Mother s Feast," by which we 
meant the saint s day of the Superior 
ess, could always be reckoned upon. 
The feast of St. Joseph was also kept 
in this auspicious fashion, which 
gave us a great " devotion " to so kind 
a mediator. Once or twice in the 
109 



In Our Convent Days 

year the Archbishop came to the con 
vent, and in return for our addresses, 
our curtsies, our baskets of flowers, 
and songs of welcome, always bravely 
insisted that we should have a holi 
day. " Be sure and tell me, if you don t 
get it," he used to say, which sounded 
charmingly confidential, though we 
well knew that we should never have 
an opportunity to tell him anything 
of the kind, and that we should never 
dare to do it,- if we had. 

In the year of grace which I now 
chronicle, the Archbishop was going 
to Rome, and had promised to say 
good-by to us before he sailed. Those 
were troubled times for Rome. Even 
we knew that something was wrong, 
though our information did not reach 
far beyond this point. Like the little 
girl who could n t tell where Glasgow 
was, because she had not finished 
studying Asia Minor, we were still 
wandering belated in the third Cru- 



no 



Un Conge sans Cloche 

sade, a far cry from united Italy. 
When Elizabeth, who had read the 
address, said she wondered why the 
Pope was called " God s great mar 
tyr saint," we could offer her very lit 
tle enlightenment. I understand that 
children now interest themselves in 
current events, and ask intelligent 
questions about things they read in the 
newspapers. For us, the Wars of the 
Roses were as yesterday, and the Cru 
sades were still matters for deep con 
cern. Berengaria of Navarre had 
been the " leading lady " of our day s 
lesson, and I had written in my 
" Compendium of History " majes 
tic phrase this interesting and com 
prehensive statement : " Berengaria 
led a blameless life, and, after her 
husband s death, retired to a monas 
tery, where she passed the remainder 
of her days." 

It was the middle of May when the 
Archbishop came, and, as the weather 



In Our Convent Days 

was warm, we wore our white frocks 
for the occasion. Very immaculate 
we looked, ranged in a deep, shin 
ing semicircle, a blue ribbon around 
every neck, and gloves on every folded 
hand. It would have been considered 
the height of impropriety to receive, 
ungloved, a distinguished visitor. As 
the prelate entered, accompanied by 
the Superioress and the Mistress Gen 
eral, we swept him a deep curtsy, 
oh, the hours of bitter practice it took 
to limber my stiff little knees for 
those curtsies ! and then broke at 
once into our chorus of welcome : 

With happy hearts we now repair 
All in this joyous scene to share." 

There were five verses. When we 
had finished, we curtsied again and 
sat down, while Mary Rawdon and 
Eleanor Hale played a nervous duet 
upon the piano. 

The Archbishop looked at us be- 

112 



Un Conge sans Cloche 

nignantly. It was said of him that he 
dearly loved children, but that he was 
apt to be bored by adults. He had 
not what are called " social gifts," and 
seldom went beyond the common 
civilities of intercourse. But he would 
play jackstraws all evening with half 
a dozen children, and apparently find 
himself much refreshed by the enter 
tainment. His eyes wandered during 
the duet to the ends of the semicir 
cle, where sat the very little girls, as 
rigidly still as cataleptics. Wriggling 
was not then deemed the prescriptive 
right of childhood. An acute observer 
might perhaps have thought that the 
Archbishop, seated majestically on 
his dais, and flanked by Reverend 
Mother and Madame Bouron, glanced 
wistfully at these motionless little fig 
ures. We were, in truth, as remote 
from him as if we had been on an 
other continent. Easy familiarity with 
our superiors was a thing undreamed 



In Our Convent Days 

of in our philosophy. The standards of 
good behaviour raised an impassable 
barrier between us. 

Frances Fenton made the address. 
It was an honour once accorded to 
Elizabeth, but usually reserved as a 
reward for superhuman virtue. Not 
on that score had Elizabeth ever 
enjoyed it. Frances was first blue 
ribbon, first medallion, and head of 
the Children of Mary. There was no 
thing left for her but beatification. 
She stepped slowly, and with what 
was called a " modest grace," into the 
middle of the room, curtsied, and 
began : 

" Your children s simple hearts would speak. 
But cannot find the words they seek. 
These tones no music s spell can lend ; 
And eloquence would vainly come 
To greet our Father, Guide, and Friend. 
Let hearts now speak, and lips be dumb ! " 

" Then why is n t she dumb ? " 
whispered Tony aggressively, but 
114. 



Un Conge sans Cloche 

without changing a muscle of her at 
tentive face. 

I pretended not to hear her. I 
had little enough discretion, Heaven 
knows, but even I felt the ripe unwis 
dom of whispering at such a time. It 
was Mary Rawdon s absence, at the 
piano, I may observe, that placed me 
in this perilous proximity. 

" Our reverence fond and hopeful prayer 
Will deck with light one empty place, 
And fill with love one vacant chair." 

"What chair?" asked Tony, and 
again I pretended not to hear. 

* For e en regret can wear a softened grace, 
And smiling hope in whispers low 
Will oft this cherished thought bestow : 
Within the Eternal City s sacred wall, 
He who has blest us in our Convent hall 
Can now to us earth s holiest blessing bring 
From God s great martyr saint, Rome s 
pontiff king." 

At this point, Tony, maddened by 
my unresponsiveness, shot out a dex- 
"5 



In Our Convent Days 

terous little leg (I don t see how she 
dared to do it, when our skirts were 
so short), and, with lightning speed, 
kicked me viciously on the shins. The 
anguish was acute, but my sense of 
self-preservation saved me from so 
much as a grimace. Madame Bou-= 
ron s lynx-like gaze was travelling 
down our ranks, and, as it rested on 
me for an instant, I felt that she must 
see the smart. Tony s expression was 
one of rapt and reverent interest. By 
the time I had mastered my emotions, 
and collected my thoughts, the ad 
dress was over, and the Archbishop 
was saying a few words about his 
coming voyage, and about the Holy 
Father, for whom he bade us pray. 
Then, with commendable promptness, 
he broached the important subject of 
the conge. There was the usual smil 
ing demur on Reverend Mother s part. 
The children had so many holidays 
("I like that!" snorted Tony), so 
116 



Un Conge sans Cloche 

many interruptions to their work. It 
was so hard to bring them back again to 
quiet and orderly ways. If she granted 
this indulgence, we must promise to 
study with double diligence for the ap 
proaching examinations. Finally she 
yielded, as became a dutiful daughter 
of the Church; the first of June, ten 
days off, was fixed as the date; and 
we gave a hearty round of applause, 
in token of our gratitude and relief. 
After this, we rather expected our 
august visitor to go away; but his eyes 
had strayed again to the motionless 
little girls at the horns of the semi 
circle; and, as if they afforded him 
an inspiration, he said something in 
low, rather urgent tones to Reverend 
Mother, something to which she 
listened graciously. 

" They will be only too proud and 
happy," we heard her murmur; and 
then she raised her voice. 

" Children," she said impressively, 
117 



In Our Convent Days 

" his Grace is good enough to ask that 
you should escort him to the woods 
this afternoon. Put on your hats and 

go." 

This was an innovation,! Put on 
our hats at four o clock the hour 
for French class and walk to the 
woods with the Archbishop. It was 
delightful, of course, but a trifle awe 
some. If, in his ignorance, he fancied 
we should gambol around him like 
silly lambs, he was soon to discover 
his mistake. Our line of march more 
closely resembled that of a well-drilled 
army. Madame Bouron walked on 
his right hand, and Madame Duncan 
on his left. The ribbons, the gradu 
ates, and a few sedate girls from the 
first class closed into a decorous group, 
half of them walking backwards, a 
convent custom in which we were 
wonderfully expert. The flanks of 
the army were composed of younger 
and less distinguished girls, while 
118 



Un Conge sans Cloche 

the small fry hovered on its borders, 
out of sight and hearing. We moved 
slowly, without .scattering, and with 
out obvious exhilaration. I was oc 
cupied in freeing my mind in many 
bitter words to Tony, who defended 
her conduct on the score of my " set 
ting up for sainthood," an accusa 
tion the novelty of which ought to 
have made it agreeable. 

When we reached the lake, a tiny 
sheet of water with a Lilliputian island, 
we came to a halt. The Archbishop 
had evidently expressed some desire, 
or at least some readiness, to trust 
himself upon the waves. The boat 
was unmoored, and Frances Fenton 
and Ella Holrook rowed him care 
fully around the island, while the rest 
of us were drawn up on shore to wit 
ness the performance. We made, no 
doubt, a very nice picture in our white 
frocks and blue neck ribbons; but we 
were spectators merely, still far re- 
119 



In Our Convent Days 

mote from any sense of companion 
ship. When the boat was close to 
shore, the Archbishop refused to land. 
He sat in the stern, looking at us with 
a curious smile. He was strikingly 
handsome, a long, lean, noble-look 
ing old man, and he had a voice of 
wonderful sweetness and power. It 
was said that, even at sixty-five, he 
sang the Mass more beautifully than 
any priest in his diocese. Therefore it 
was a little alarming when he sud 
denly asked : 

" My children, do you know any 
pretty songs ? " 

"Oh, yes, your Grace," answered 
Madame Bouron. 

" Then sing me something now," 
said the Archbishop, still with that 
inscrutable smile. 

There was a moment s hesitation, 
a moment s embarrassment, and then, 
acting under instruction, we sang (or, 
at least, some of us did; there was 



1 20 



Un Conge sans Cloche 

no music in my soul) the u Canadian 
Boat-Song," and " Star of the Sea," 
appropriate, both of them, to the 
watery expanse before us. 

44 Ave Maria, we lift our eyes to thee ; 
Or a pro nobis ; t is night far o er the sea." 

The Archbishop listened atten 
tively, and with an evident pleasure 
that must have been wholly disasso 
ciated from any musical sense. Then 
his smile deepened. " Would you like 
me to sing for you?" he said. 

" Oh, yes, if you please," we shrilled ; 
and Madame Bouron gave us a warn 
ing glance. " Be very still, children," 
she admonished. " His Grace is going 
to sing." 

His Grace settled himself comfort 
ably in the boat. His amused glance 
travelled over our expectant faces, and 
sought as usual the little girls, now 
close to the water s edge. Then he 
cleared his throat, and, as I am a Chris- 

121 



In Our Convent Days 

tian gentlewoman, and a veracious 
chronicler, this is the song he sang: 

44 In King Arthur s reign, a merry reign, 
Three children were sent from their homes, 
Were sent from their homes, were sent from 

their homes, 
And they never went back again. 

* The first, he was a miller, 
The second, he was a weaver, 
The third, he was a little tailor boy, 
Three big rogues together." 

" Can t you join in the chorus, chil 
dren?" interrupted the Archbishop. 
"Come! the last two lines of every 
verse." 

" The third, he was a little tailor boy, 
Three big rogues together." 

Our voices rose in a quavering ac 
companiment to his mellifluous notes. 
We were petrified; but, even in a 
state of petrification, we did as we 
were bidden. 
" The miller, he stole corn, 

The weaver, he stole yarn, 
122 



Un Conge sans Cloche 

And the little tailor boy, he stole broad 
cloth, 
*!To keep these three rogues warm." 

" Chorus ! " commanded the Arch 
bishop; and this time our voices were 
louder and more assured. 

"And the little tailor boy, he stole broad 
cloth, 
To keep these three rogues warm." 

" The miller was drowned in his dam, 
The weaver was hung by his yarn, 
But the Devil ran away with the little tailor 

boy, 
With the broadcloth under his arm." 

There was a joyous shout from our 
ranks. We understood it all now. The 
Archbishop was misbehaving himself, 
was flaunting his misbehaviour in 
Madame Bouron s face. We knew 
very well what would be said to us, 
if we sang a song like that, without 
the Archiepiscopal sanction, and there 
was a delicious sense of impunity in 
123 



In Our Convent Days 

our hearts, as we vociferated the un 
hallowed lines: 

" But the Devil ran away with the little tailor 

boy, 
With the broadcloth under his arm." 

Then the Archbishop stepped out 
of the boat, and there was a timid 
scramble to his side. The barriers 
were down. He had knocked at our 
hearts in the Devil s name, and we had 
flung them wide. The return to the 
convent was like a rout; little girls 
wedging their way in among big girls, 
the Second Cours contesting every 
step of the path with the First Cours, 
the most insignificant children lifted 
suddenly to prominence and distinc 
tion. I was too shy to do more than 
move restlessly on the outskirts of the 
crowd; but I saw Tony conversing af 
fably with the Archbishop (and look 
ing as gentle as she was intelligent), 
and Viola Milton kissing his ring with 
the assurance of an infant Aloysius. 
124 



Un Conge sans Cloche 

When he bade us good-by, we shouted 
and waved our handkerchiefs until he 
was out of sight. He turned at the end 
of the avenue, and waved his in a 
last friendly salutation. That was very 
long ago. I trust that in Paradise the 
Holy Innocents are now bearing him 
company, for I truly believe his soul 
would weary of the society of grown 
up saints. 

And our conge was only ten days off. 
This thought was left to gild our wak 
ing hours. We Elizabeth, Marie, 
Tony, Lilly, Emily, and I resolved 
ourselves immediately into a commit 
tee of ways and means, and voted all 
the money in the treasury for supplies. 
It was not much, but, if well laid out, 
it would purchase sweets enough to 
insure a midnight pang. The privilege 
of buying so much as a stick of candy 
was one rigidly reserved for holidays. 
" Mary " did our shopping for us. 
Mary was a hybrid, a sort of unclois- 
125 



In Our Convent Days 

tered nun. Her out-of-date bonnet, 
worn instead of a lay sister s close 
white cap, proclaimed her as one free 
to come and go; and her mission in 
life was to transact outside business, 
to buy whatever was necessary or 
permitted. The lay sisters did the 
work of the convent; Mary ministered 
to its needs. We wrote down for her 
a list of delicacies. 

One dozen oranges. 

One box of figs. 

One pound of caramels, which 
were dear. 

Two pounds of walnut taffy. 

Three pounds of cinnamon bun. 
A fair allowance, I surmise, for six 
well-fed little girls. 

" I tell you what I 11 do," said Marie, 
in an excess of generosity. "I 11 save 
up my wine, if you 11 lend me bottles 
to put it in." 

We felt this to be noble. For some 
mysterious reason (she was never 
126 



Un Conge sans Cloche 

known to be ill), Marie was sent every 
morning at eleven o clock to the in 
firmary; and at that unconvivial hour 
drank a solitary glass of wine. It was 
port, I believe, or Burgundy, I am 
not sure which, and I pray Heaven I 
may never taste its like again. Now, 
provided with half a dozen empty bot 
tles, which had erstwhile held tooth- 
wash and cologne, she undertook to 
elude the infirmarian s eye, and to 
decant her wine into these receptacles, 
instead of putting it where it was due. 
How she managed this we never knew 
(it would have seemed difficult to a 
prestidigitator), but Marie was a child 
of resources, second only to Tony in 
every baleful art. 

Clever though we deemed her, how 
ever, clever though we sometimes 
deemed ourselves, there was one in the 
school, younger, yet far more acute 
than any of us. Thursday was visitors 
day, and Lilly s brother came to see 
127 



In Our Convent Days 

her. After he had gone, Lilly joined 
us in the avenue, looking perturbed 
and mysterious. 

" I want to tell you something," she 
said lamely. "Viola has got some 
cigarettes. Jack gave them to her." 

Cigarettes! Dynamite could not 
have sounded more overwhelming. 
Cigarettes, and in Viola Milton s keep 
ing! Never had a whiff of tobacco 
defiled the convent air. Never had 
the thought of such unbridled license 
entered into any heart. And Viola 
was ten years old. 

"I know what that means," said 
Tony sharply. " She wants to come 
with us on the conge" 

Lilly nodded. It was plain that 
Viola, having possessed herself of a 
heavy bribe, had persuaded her older 
sister to open negotiations. 

"Well, we won t have her," cried 
Tony vehemently. " Not if she has 

all the cigarettes in Christendom. 

128 



Un Conge sans Cloche 

Why on earth, Lilly, did n t you ask 
your brother for them yourself? " 

"I never thought of such a thing," 
pleaded Lilly. "I never even heard 
her do it." 

"Well, we won t have Viola, and 
you may go and tell her so," repeated 
Tony with mounting wrath. " Go and 
tell her so right off. We won t have 
a child of ten tagging round with us 
all day." 

" Agnes is only eleven," said Lilly. 

" How many cigarettes has she 
got ? " It was Elizabeth who asked 
this pertinent question. 

"I don t know. Jack gave her all 
he had." 

" It does n t make any difference 
how many she has. I won t have her," 
flamed Tony. 

At this assertive " I," Elizabeth lifted 

her head. Her light blue eyes met 

Tony s sparkling brown ones. It was 

not the first time the two children had 

129 



In Our Convent Days 

measured their forces. " We 11 see, 
anyhow, what Viola s got," said Eliza 
beth calmly. 

Lilly, being despatched to make in 
quiries, returned in two minutes with 
her little sister by her side. Viola 
was a bony child, all eyes and teeth, 
as ugly as Lilly was beautiful. Her 
sombre glance was riveted wistfully 
upon Elizabeth s face. She was too 
wise to weaken her cause with words, 
but held out eleven little white objects, 
at which we looked enviously. 

" Seven from eleven leaves four," 
murmured Emily. 

" I don t want any," said Viola, who 
was bidding high. She would have 
bartered her immortal soul to gain her 
point. 

" And I don t want more than one," 
said Lilly. " That will leave two 
apiece for the rest of you." 

"Well?" asked Elizabeth, looking 
round the circle. 

130 



Un Conge sans Cloche 

" Oh, do let s have them ! " I urged, 
dazzled by a sudden vision of debauch 
ery. " They 11 be just the thing to go 
with the wine." 

They were just the thing. We found 
this out later on. 

" Oh, yes, let s have them," said 
Marie, who felt the responsibilities of 
a hostess. 

" Let s," said Emily, our silent 
member. 

" I won t! " asseverated Tony, bat 
tling heroically for a lost cause. " I 
won t have anything to do with the 
treat, if you let Viola in." 

"Then don t !" retorted Elizabeth, 
now sure of victory, and scornful of 
further dispute. 

Tony turned her back upon her ve 
nal friends, and marched off to another 
group of girls. There was no great 
novelty about this proceeding, but the 
imminence of the conge lent it an un 
wonted seriousness. 



In Our Convent Days 

" Don t you suppose she 11 play 
cache cache with us ? " asked Marie 
somewhat ruefully, and well aware of 
what we should lose if she did not. 

"Of course she will," said Eliza 
beth, " because she can t play without 



us." 



And Elizabeth was right. Before 
the first of June, Tony had " come 
round;" being persuaded to this con 
descension by Lilly the peacemaker. 
Every cluster of friends should look 
to it that there is one absolutely sweet- 
tempered person in the group. But one 
is enough. 

The first glorious thing about a 
conge was that we got up at seven in 
stead of at quarter-past six, and the 
next was that we began to talk before 
we were out of our beds. Breakfast 
was so hilarious that only the fear 
of wasting our precious hours ever 
dragged us from the refectory, and up 
into the schoolroom, to prepare for the 
132 



Un Conge sans Cloche 

special feature of the day, cache cache. 
We never played cache cache except 
upon a holiday, which was why it 
seemed such a thrilling and wonder 
ful game. No indulgence was likely 
to lose its value for us through unwar 
ranted repetition. Two captains were 
chosen by acclamation, and they in 
turn elected their girls, picking them 
out alternately, one by one, until the 
whole Second Cours was divided 
into two bands of about twenty each. 
One band remained shut up in a mu 
sic room (which was goal) for half an 
hour, while the other betook itself to 
the most secret and inaccessible spot 
that could be thought of as a hiding 
place. The captain might stay with 
her band, and direct its action, or she 
might be hidden separately; but no 
one except the captain was permitted 
to stray from the ranks for purposes 
of reconnoitring. The same rule held 
good for the searching party. The 
33 



In Our Convent Days 

captain alone might play the scout. 
The rest were obliged to hold together. 
The capture of the hidden captain 
counted as half the game. The cap 
ture of the hidden band, before it could 
reach its goal, counted as the other 
half of the game. Thus the hiders 
were forced either to dispense with 
the invaluable services of their leader, 
or to risk the loss of the whole gamej 
if she were surprised in their com 
pany. So much, indeed, depended 
upon the leader s tactics, and so keen 
was our thirst for victory, that the girl 
who saved the day for herself and for 
her comrades was held in higher es 
teem than the girl who came out ahead 
in the periodical blistering of exami 
nations. College valuations are, per 
haps, not so absolutely modern as they 
seem. 

Given an area of over a hundred 
acres, with woods and orchards, with 
a deep ravine choked with tangled 



Un Conge sans Cloche 

underbrush for concealment, and with 
wide lawns for an open run, and 
cache cache becomes, or at least it be 
came for us, a glorious and satisfying 
sport. To crouch breathless in the 
" poisonous valley" (there was a touch 
of poetry in all our nomenclature), to 
skirt cautiously the marshy ground of 
La Salette (named after the miracu 
lous spring of Dauphine), to crawl on 
one s stomach behind half a mile of 
inadequate hedge, to make a wild dash 
for goal within full view of the pur 
suing party, these things supplied 
all the trepidation and fatigue, all the 
opportunities for generalship, and all 
the openings for dispute, that reason 
able children could demand. We 
hardly needed the additional excite 
ment provided by Eloise Didier s slip 
ping into the marsh, and being fished 
out, a compact cake of mud; or by 
Tony s impiously hiding in the organ 
loft of the chapel, and being caught 



In Our Convent Days 

red-handed by Madame Duncan, a 
nun whom, thank Heaven! it was pos 
sible, though difficult, to cajole. 

We played all morning and all after 
noon, played until our strength and 
our spirits were alike exhausted; and 
then, when the shadows began to 
lengthen, and our vivacity to wane, 
we made ready for the mad carousal 
which was to close our day. A base 
ment music room, as remote as pos 
sible from any chance of inspection, 
was chosen as the scene of revelry. 
It was not a cheerful spot; but it 
appeared reasonably safe. Hither we 
transported our feast, which, spread 
out upon a piano, presented a formid 
able appearance, and restored us to 
gayety and good humour. The advan 
tage of childhood over riper years is 
its blessed slowness to recognize a 
failure. If a thing starts out to be a 
treat, why, it is a treat, and that s the 
end of it. The cinnamon bun was cer- 
136 



Un Conge sans Cloche 

tainly stale (Mary had, it was plain, 
consulted her own convenience as to 
the day of its purchase), but Heaven 
forbid that we should balk at staleness. 
Oranges and caramels, figs and wal 
nut taffy present, to the thinking mind, 
an inharmonious combination; but 
that was a point on which we were to 
be subsequently enlightened. As for 
Marie s wine, it can be readily im 
agined what it was like, after lying 
around for a warm May week in im 
perfectly corked tooth-wash bottles. 
I can only say that no medicine it had 
been my lot to taste was ever half so 
nasty ; yet those were days when all 
drugs were of uncompromising bitter 
ness. An effete civilization had not 
then devised gelatine capsules to de 
fraud the palate of its pain. 

We ate everything, cake, fruit, and 

candy; we drank the wine (heroic 

young souls!), and, trembling with 

excitement, we lit the cigarettes, a 

137 



In Our Convent Days 

more difficult matter than we had im 
agined. I had not waited until this 
point to dree my weird. Excessive 
fatigue is but an indifferent prepara 
tion for unwonted indulgence; and I 
was a sickly child, to whom only the 
simplicity and regularity of school life 
lent a semblance of health. Ominous 
sensations were warning me of my 
deadly peril; but I held straight on. 
Suddenly Marie, who had been smok 
ing with silent fortitude, said sweetly: 

" It s a shame Viola should n t have 
one of her own cigarettes. I 11 give 
her my second." 

" She can have one of mine, too," 
said Emily. 

" Thank you," returned Viola has 
tily. " I don t want any. I gave them 
to you." 

" Oh, do try one ! " urged Marie. 

" Yes, do ! " said Tony sardonically. 
" Do try one, Viola. They are anxious 
enough to get rid of them." 
138 



Un Conge sans Cloche 

She flung this taunt at the crowd, 
but her eye met mine with a chal 
lenge I would not evade. " I want my 
second one," I said. 

Valour met valour. " So do I," 
smiled Tony. 

From this point, my recollections 
are vague. We talked about Madame 
Davide, and whether she really did 
not understand English, or only pre 
tended not to, a point which had 
never been satisfactorily settled. We 
talked about Madame Bouron, and 
her methods (which we deemed un 
worthy) of finding out all she knew. 
I added little to the sprightliness of 
the conversation, and after a while I 
slipped away. On the stairs a kindly 
fate threw me into the arms of Sister 
O Neil, who had charge of the vestry, 
and who was carrying piles of clean 
linen to the dormitories. She was a 
friendly soul (nearly all the lay sisters 
were good to us), and she took pos- 



In Our Convent Days 

session of me then and there. When 
I was safe in bed, collapsed but 
comforted, she sprinkled me with 
holy water, and tucked the light cov 
ers carefully around me. " Lie quiet 
now," she said. " I 11 go tell Madame 
Rayburn where you are, and that 
there was no time to ask leave of 
anybody." 

I did lie very quiet, and, after a 
while, fell into a doze, from which 
the sound of footsteps woke me. 
Some one was standing at the foot of 
my bed. It was Tony. She looked 
a trifle more sallow than usual, but 
was grinning cheerfully. " I m better 
now," she said. 

The delicate emphasis on the now 
was like a condensed epic. " So am 
I," I murmured confidentially. 

Tony disappeared, and in a few 
minutes was back again, comfortably 
attired in a dressing gown and slip 
pers. She perched herself on the foot 
140 



Un Conge sans Cloche 

of my bed. " Has n t it been a perfect 
conge?" she sighed happily. (Oh, 
blessed memory of youth !) "If you d 
seen Madame Duncan, though, when 
I came stealing out of the chapel, 
without a veil, too. What does this 
mean, Tony ? she said. It is n t pos 
sible that " 

There was an abrupt pause. 
"Well?" I asked expectantly, though 
I had heard it all several times al 
ready; but Tony s eyes were fixed 
on the little pile of clean linen lying 
on my chair. 

"Oh! I say," she cried, and there 
was a joyous ring in her voice. 
" Here s our chance. Let s change 
all the girls washes." 

I gazed at her with heartfelt ad 
miration. To have passed recently 
through so severe a crisis, a crisis 
which had reduced me to nothing 
ness; and yet to be able instantly to 
think of such a charming thing to do. 
141 



In Our Convent Days 

Not for the first time, I felt proud of 
Tony s friendship. Her resourceful 
ness compelled my homage. Had we 
been living in one of Mr. James s nov 
els, I should have called her " great " 
and " wonderful." 

" Get up and help," said Tony. 

I stumbled out of bed, and into 
my slippers. My head felt curiously 
light when I lifted it from my pillow, 
and I had to catch hold of my curtain 
rod for support. The dormitory floor 
heaved up and down. Tony was al 
ready at work, carrying the linen 
from one side of the room to the 
other, and I staggered weakly after 
her. There were thirty beds, so it 
took us some time to accomplish our 
mission; but "The labour we delight 
in physicks pain;" and it was with a 
happy heart, and a sense of exalted 
satisfaction, that I saw the last pile 
safe in the wrong alcove, and crawled 
back between my sheets. " Some- 
142 



Un Conge sans Cloche 

thing attempted, something done, to 
ea rn a night s repose." Tony sat on 
my bed, and we talked confidentially 
until we heard the girls coming up 
stairs. Then she fled, and I awaited 
developments. 

They entered more noisily than 
was their wont. The law ruled that 
a conge came to an end with night 
prayers, after which no word might 
be spoken; but it was hard to control 
children who had been demoralized 
by a long day of liberty. Moreover, 
the " Seven Dolours " dormitory was 
ever the most turbulent of the three; 
its inmates lacking the docility of the 
very little girls, and the equanimity 
of the big ones. They were all at 
what is called the troublesome age. 
There was a note of anxiety in Ma 
dame Chapelle s voice, as she hushed 
down some incipient commotion. 

" I must have perfect silence in the 
dormitory," she said. "You have 
H3 



In Our Convent Days 

talked all day; now you must go 
quietly to bed. Do you hear me, 
children? Silence!" 

There was a lull, and then I knew 
it must soon come a voice from the 
far end of the room. " I have thirty- 
seven s clothes " (everything was 
marked with our school numbers), 
" instead of mine." 

"Mary Aylmer, be quiet!" com 
manded Madame Chapelle. 

"But, Madame, I tell you truly, I 
have thirty-seven s clothes. Who is 
thirty-seven? " 

"I am," cried another voice, 
Eloise Didier s. " But I have n t got 
your clothes, Mary Aylmer. I ve 
got Alice Campbell s. Here, Alice, 
twenty-two, come take your things." 

"Who is thirty-three? Ruffled 
night-gown with two buttons off. Oh, 
shame ! " sang out Marie jubilantly. 

" Children, will you be silent! " said 
Madame Chapelle, angry and bewil- 
144 



Un Conge sans Cloche 

dered. " What do you mean by such 
behaviour ? " 

" Forty- two s stockings want darn 
ing," said a reproachful voice. It was 
very probable, for I was forty-two. 

"So do thirty-eight s." 

"Adelaide H. McC. Harrison,"Eliz- 
abeth read slowly, and with pains 
taking precision. " Have n t you any 
more initials, Adelaide, you could 
have put on your underclothes? " 

"Look again, Elizabeth. Surely 
there s a coronet somewhere?" in 
terposed Eloise Didier sardonically. 
Adelaide was not popular in our com 
munity. 

" Three coronets, a sceptre, and a 
globe," said Elizabeth. 

" Children," began Madame Cha- 
pelle; but her voice was lost in the 
scurrying of feet, as girl after girl 
darted across the polished floor to 
claim her possessions, or to rid herself 
of some one else s. They were, I well 
H5 



In Our Convent Days 

knew, devoutly grateful for this be 
nign confusion, and were making the 
most of it. Fate did not often throw 
such chances in their way. For a 
moment I felt that noble joy which 
in this world is granted only to suc 
cessful effort, to the accomplishment 
of some well-planned, well-executed 
design. Then silence fell suddenly 
upon the room, and I knew, though 
I could not see, that every girl was 
back in her own alcove. 

" May I ask the meaning of this 
disorder!" said Madame Rayburn 
coldly. 

She was surveillante, and was 
making the round of the dormitories, 
to see that everything was quiet after 
the day s excitement. Madame Cha- 
pelle began a nervous explanation. 
There was some mistake about the 
laundry. None of the children had 
their own clothes. They were trying 
rather noisily, she admitted to 
146 



Un Conge sans Cloche 

exchange them. Was it possible that 
Sister O Neil 

"Sister O Neil!" interrupted Ma 
dame Rayburn impatiently. " Sister 
O Neil had nothing to do with it. 
Answer me quietly, children. Did 
you all find you had some one else s 
clothes?" 

There was a murmur of assent, 
a polite, subdued, apologetic sort of 
murmur; but, none the less, of uni 
versal assent. At that instant I re 
membered Sister O Neil s parting 
words to me, and, with the instinc 
tive impulse of the ostrich, slid deeper 
in my little bed. A quick step crossed 
the dormitory. A firm hand drew my 
curtain. "Agnes ! " said Madame Ray- 
burn, in a terrible voice. 

Ah, well ! Anyway, the conge was 
over. 



Marriage Vows 

WE had decided upon the 
married estate, titles, and 
foreign travel. I do not 
mean that we cherished such ambi 
tions for the future, what was the 
future to us ? but that in the world 
of illusions, which was our world, we 
were about to assume these new and 
dazzling conditions. Childish even for 
our years, though our years were very 
few, and preserved mercifully from 
that familiar and deadening inter 
course with adults, which might have 
resulted in our being sensible and 
well informed, we cultivated our im 
aginations instead of our minds. The 
very bareness of our surroundings, the 
absence of all appliances for play, 
flung us back unreservedly upon the 
illimitable resources of invention. It 
148 



Marriage Vows 

was in the long winter months, when 
nature was unkind, when the last 
chestnut had been gathered, and the 
last red leaf pressed carefully in an 
atlas, that we awoke to the recogni 
tion of our needs, and slipped across 
the border-land of fancy. It was then 
that certain wise and experienced nuns 
watched us closely, knowing that our 
pent-up energies might at any moment 
break down the barriers of discipline; 
but knowing also that it was not pos 
sible for a grown-up person, however 
well disposed, to enter our guarded 
realm. We were always under ob 
servation, but the secret city wherein 
we dwelt was trodden by no other 
foot than ours. 

It had rained for a week. We had 
exhausted the resources of literature 
and the drama. A new book in the 
convent library, a book with a most 
promising title, "The Witch of Melton 
Hill," had turned out to be a dismal 
149 



In Our Convent Days 

failure. Elizabeth observed sardoni 
cally that if it had been named, as it 
should have been, " The Guardian 
Angel of Hallam House," we should 
at least have let it alone. An unrea 
soning relative had sent me as a be 
lated Christmas gift, "Agnes Hilton; 
or Pride Corrected," making the 
feeble excuse that I bore the heroine s 
name. To a logical mind this would 
have seemed no ground either for giv 
ing me the story, or for blaming me 
because it proved unreadable. But 
Tony, to whom I lent it, reproached 
me with exceeding bitterness for hav 
ing the kind of a name a goody- 
goody name she called it which 
was always borne by pious and virtu 
ous heroines. She said she thanked 
Heaven none of them were ever chris 
tened Antoinette; and she seemed to 
hold me responsible for the ennobling 
qualities she despised. 

As for the drama, we had acted for 



Marriage Vows 

the second time Elizabeth s master 
piece, " The Youth of Michael An- 
gelo," and there appeared to be no 
further opening for our talents. We 
little girls, with the imitative instincts 
of our age, were always endeavouring 
to reproduce on a modest scale the 
artistic triumphs with which the big 
girls entertained the school. It was 
hard work, because we had no plays, 
no costumes, and no manager. We 
had only Elizabeth, who rose to the 
urgent needs of the situation, over 
coming for our sake the aversion she 
felt for any form of composition, and 
substituting for her French exercises 
the more inspiring labours of the dra 
matist. Her first attempt was slight, 
a mere curtain raiser, and dealt with 
the fortunes of a robber chief, who, 
after passionate pursuit of a beautiful 
and beloved maiden, finds out that she 
is his sister, and hails the news with 
calm fraternal joy. By a fortunate 



In Our Convent Days 

coincidence, he also discovers that an 
aged traveller whom he had purposed 
robbing is his father; so the curtain 
falls upon a united family, the gentle 
desperado quoting an admirable sen 
timent of Cowper s (it was in our 
reader, accompanied by a picture of a 
gentleman, a lady, a baby, and a bird 
cage) : 

" Domestic happiness, thou only bliss 
Of Paradise that has survived the fall." 

The success of this touching and 
realistic little play encouraged Eliza 
beth to more ambitious efforts. She 
set about dramatizing, with my assist 
ance, a story from " The Boyhood of 
Great Painters," which told how the 
youthful Michael Angelo modelled a 
snow Faun in the gardens of Lorenzo 
de Medici, and how that magnificent 
duke, seeing this work of art before it 
had time to melt, showered praises 
and promises upon the happy sculptor. 
It was not a powerful theme, but there 
152 



Marriage Vows 

was an ancient retainer of the Buonar 
roti family (Elizabeth wisely reserved 
this part for herself), who made sar 
castic remarks about his employers, 
and never appeared without a large 
feather duster, thus fulfilling all the 
legitimate requirements of modern 
comedy. What puzzled us most sorely 
was the Faun, which we supposed to 
be an innocent young quadruped, and 
had no possible way of presenting. 
Therefore, after a great deal of con 
sideration, it was determined that a 
flower girl should be substituted; this 
happy idea (so suggestive of Michael 
Angelo s genius) being inspired by 
the plaster figures then sadly familiar 
to lawns and garden walks. In the 
story, the young artist emphasized the 
age of the Faun by deftly knocking 
out two of its front teeth, a touch 
of realism beyond our range, as Viola 
Milton in a nightgown played the 
statue s part. In our drama, the Duke 



In Our Convent Days 

complained that the flower girl was 
too grave, whereupon Michael An- 
gelo, with a few happy touches, gave 
her a smile so broad Viola s teeth 
being her most prominent feature 
that some foolish little girls in 
the audience thought a joke was in 
tended, and laughed uproariously. 

Marie played Michael Angelo. I 
was his proud father, who appeared 
only in the last scene, and said, " Come 
to my arms, my beloved son ! " which 
he did so impetuously Marie was no 
thing if not ardent that I was greatly 
embarrassed, and did not know how 
to hold him. Lorenzo the Magnifi 
cent was affably, though somewhat 
feebly, portrayed by Annie Churchill, 
who wore a waterproof cloak, flung, 
like Hamlet s mantle, over her left 
shoulder, and a beaver hat with a red 
bow and an ostrich plume, the prop 
erty of Eloise Didier. It was a signifi 
cant circumstance that when Marie, 
54 



Marriage Vows 

rushing to my embrace, knocked over 
a little table, the sole furniture of the 
Medicean palace, and indicating by 
its presence that we were no longer 
in the snow, Lorenzo hastily picked 
it up, and straightened the cover; 
while Elizabeth who had no busi 
ness to be in that scene stood calmly 
by, twirling her feather duster, and ap 
parently accustomed to being waited 
on by the flower of the Florentine 
nobility. 

The production of " Michael An- 
gelo " cost us four weeks of hard and 
happy labour. His name became so 
familiar to our lips that Tony, whose 
turn it was to read night and morning 
prayers, substituted it profanely for 
that of the blessed Archangel. We 
always said the Credo and Confiteor in 
Latin, so that beato Michaeli Arch- 
angelo became beato Michael An- 
gelO) without attracting the attention 
of any ears save ours. It was one of 
i55 



In Our Convent Days 

those daring jests (as close to wicked 
ness as we ever got) which served as 
passwords in our secret city. The 
second time we gave the play, we ex 
tended a general invitation to the 
First Cours to come and see it; and 
a score or so of the less supercilious 
girls actually availed themselves of 
the privilege. It is hard for me to 
make clear what condescension this 
implied. Feudal lord and feudal vas 
sal were not more widely separated 
than were the First and Second Cours. 
Feudal lord and feudal vassal were 
not more firmly convinced of the just 
ness of their respective positions. No 
uneasy agitator had ever pricked us 
into discontent. The existing order of 
things seemed to us as natural as the 
planetary system. 

Now, casting about for some new 
form of diversion, Elizabeth proposed 
one stormy afternoon that we should 
assume titles, and marry one another; 



Marriage Vows 

secretly, of course, but with all the 
pomp and circumstance that imagina 
tion could devise. She herself, hav 
ing first choice, elected England for 
her dwelling-place, and Emily for 
her spouse. She took Emily, I am 
sure, because that silent and impassive 
child was the only one of the five who 
did n t particularly covet the honour. 
Elizabeth, protecting herself instinc 
tively from our affection and admira 
tion, found her natural refuge in this 
unresponsive bosom. Because Emily 
would just as soon have married Lilly 
or me, Elizabeth wisely offered her 
her hand. She also insisted that Emily, 
being older, should be husband. Mere 
surface ambition was alien to her 
character. The position of maitresse 
femme satisfied all reasonable re 
quirements. 

Names and titles were more difficult 
of selection. Emily was well disposed 
toward a dukedom; but Elizabeth 



In Our Convent Days 

preferred that her husband should be 
an earl, because an earl was "belted," 
and a duke, we surmised, was n t. 

" A duke is higher than an earl," 
said the well-informed Emily. 

" But he is n t belted," insisted Eliz 
abeth. "It s a &lt; belted knight and a 
belted earl always; never a belted 
duke. You can wear a belt if you re 
an earl, Emily." 

" I do wear a belt," said the prosaic 
Emily. 

" Then, of course, you ve got to be 
an earl," retorted Elizabeth; reason 
ing by some process, not perfectly 
plain to us, but conclusive enough 
for Emily, who tepidly yielded the 
point. " Philip Howard, Earl of Arun 
del" 

" I won t be named Philip," inter 
rupted Emily rebelliously. 

" Well, then, Henry Howard, Earl 
of Arundel and Surrey, and we ll live 
in Arundel Castle." 
158 



Marriage Vows 

" You got that out of Constance 
Sherwood, " said Marie. 

Elizabeth nodded. Lady Fuller- 
ton s pretty story had been read aloud 
in the refectory, and we were rather 
" up " in English titles as a conse 
quence. 

" I m going to be Prince of Castile," 
said Tony suddenly. 

I leaped from my chair. "You 
shan t!" I flashed, and then stopped 
short, bitterly conscious of my im 
potence. Tony had " spoken first." 
There was no wresting her honours 
from her. She knew, she must have 
known that Castile was the home of 
my soul, though no one had ever 
sounded the depth of my devotion. 
My whole life was lit by Spain s som 
bre glow. It was the land where my 
fancy strayed whenever it escaped 
from thraldom, and to which I paid a 
secret and passionate homage. The 
destruction of the Invincible Armada 



In Our Convent Days 

was the permanent sorrow of my child 
hood. And now Tony had located 
herself in this paradise of romance. 
" Castile s proud dames " would be 
her peers and countrywomen. The 
Alhambra would be her pleasure- 
house (geographically I was a trifle 
indistinct), and Moorish slaves would 
wait upon her will. I could not even 
share these blessed privileges, because 
it was plain to all of us that Tony s 
one chance of connubial felicity lay 
in having Lilly for a partner. The 
divorce courts would have presented 
a speedy termination to any other 
alliance. 

" Never mind, Agnes," said Marie 
consolingly. " We don t want Castile. 
It s a soapy old place. We 11 be Duke 
and Duchess of Tuscany." 

I yielded a sorrowful assent. Tus 
cany awoke no echoes in my bosom. I 
neither knew nor cared whence Marie 
had borrowed the suggestion. But 
1 60 



Marriage Vows 

the priceless discipline of communal 
life had taught us all to respect one 
another s rights, and to obey the in 
flexible rules of play. Tony had staked 
her claim to Castile; and I became 
Beatrice della Rovere, Duchess of 
Tuscany, without protest, but without 
elation. Lilly looked genuinely dis 
tressed. Her sweet heart was hurt to 
feel that she was depriving a friend 
of any happiness, and it is safe to say 
that she was equally indifferent to the 
grandeurs of Italy and of Spain. Per 
haps Griselda the patient felt no lively 
concern as to the whereabouts of her 
husband s estates. She had other and 
more serious things to ponder. 

The marriage ceremony presented 
difficulties. We must have a priest to 
officiate; that is, we must have a girl 
discreet enough to be trusted with 
our secret, yet stupid enough, or ami 
able enough, to be put out of the play 
afterwards. We had no idea of being 
161 



In Our Convent Days 

burdened with clerical society. Annie 
Churchill was finally chosen for the 
role. Her functions were carefully ex 
plained to her, and her scruples she 
was dreadfully afraid of doing some 
thing wrong were, by candid argu 
ment, overcome. Marie wanted to be 
married in the " Lily of Judah " chapel, 
a tiny edifice girt by the winding 
drive; but Elizabeth firmly upheld the 
superior claims of St. Joseph. 

St. Joseph was, as we well knew, 
the patron of marriage, its advocate 
and friend. We depended upon him 
to find us our future husbands, in 
which regard he has shown undue 
partiality, and it was in good faith 
that we now placed ourselves under 
his protection. Our play inevitably 
reflected the religious influences by 
which we were so closely environed. 
I hear it said that the little sons of 
ministers preach to imaginary audi 
ences in the nursery, an idea which 
162 



Marriage Vows 

conveys a peculiar horror to my mind. 
We did not preach (which of us would 
have listened?), but we followed in 
fancy, like the child, Eugenie de Gue- 
rin, those deeply coloured traditions 
which lent atmosphere to our simple 
and monotonous lives. One of our 
favourite games was the temptation 
of St. Anthony. Mariana Grognon, a 
little French girl of unsurpassed agil 
ity, had " created " the part of the 
devil. Its special feature was the fly 
ing leap she took over the kneeling 
hermit s head, a performance more 
startling than seductive. This viva 
cious pantomime had been frowned 
upon by the mistress of recreation, who 
had no idea what it meant, but who 
considered, and with reason, that Ma 
riana was behaving like a tomboy. 
Then one day an over-zealous St. An 
thony Marie probably crossed 
himself with such suspicious fervour 
when the devil made his jump that 
163 



In Our Convent Days 

the histrionic nature of the sport be 
came evident, and it was sternly sup 
pressed. The primitive humour of the 
miracle play was not in favour at the 
convent. 

We were married in front of St. 
Joseph s statue, outside the chapel 
door, on Sunday afternoon. Sunday 
was selected for the ceremony, partly 
because we had possession of our 
white veils on that day, and what 
bride would wear a black veil! and 
partly because the greater liberty al 
lowed us made possible an unob 
served half-hour. It was Elizabeth s 
custom and mine to go to the chapel 
every Sunday before supper, and offer 
an earnest supplication to the Blessed 
Virgin that we might not be given 
medals that night at Primes. I loved 
Primes. It was the most exciting event 
of the week. There was an impres 
sive solemnity about the big, hushed 
room, the long rows of expectant girls, 
164 



Marriage Vows 

Reverend Mother, begirt by the whole 
community, gazing at us austerely, 
and the seven days record read out 
in Madame Bouron s clear, incisive 
tones. We knew how every girl in 
the school, even the exalted graduates 
and semi-sacred medallions, had be 
haved. We knew how they stood in 
class. We saw the successful stu 
dents go up to receive their medals. 
Occasional comments from Madame 
Bouron added a bitter pungency to 
the situation. It was delightful from 
beginning to end, unless and this 
happened very often to Elizabeth, and 
sometimes even to me we had dis 
tinguished ourselves sufficiently to win 
our class medals for the week. Then, 
over an endless expanse of polished 
floor, slippery as glass, we moved like 
stricken creatures; conscious that our 
friends were watching us in mocking 
security from their chairs; conscious 
that we were swinging our arms and 
165 



In Our Convent Days 

turning in our toes; and painfully 
aware that our curtsies would never 
come up to the required standard of 
elegance and grace. Elizabeth was 
furthermore afflicted by a dark fore 
boding that something something 
in the nature of a stocking or a petti 
coat would " come down " when 
she was in mid-stream, and this appre 
hension deepened her impenetrable 
gloom. It was in the hopes of avert 
ing such misery that we said our " Hail 
Marys" every Sunday afternoon, mani 
festing thereby much faith but little 
intelligence, as all these matters had 
been settled at " Conference " on Sat 
urday. 

I have always believed, however, 
that it was in answer to our prayers 
that a law was passed in mid-term, 
ordaining that no girl should be eli 
gible for a class medal unless she 
had all her conduct notes, unless her 
week s record was without a stain. 
1 66 



Marriage Vows 

As this was sheerly impossible, we 
were thenceforth safe. We heard our 
names read out, and sat still, in dis 
graceful but blessed security. Even 
Madame Bouron s icy censure, and 
Reverend Mother s vaguely reproach 
ful glance (she was hopelessly near 
sighted, and had n t the remotest idea 
where we sat) were easier to bear than 
that distressful journey up and down 
the classroom, with every eye upon us. 
The marriage ceremony would have 
been more tranquil and more impos 
ing if we had not had such a poltroon 
of a priest. Annie was so nervous, so 
afraid she was committing a sin, and 
so afraid she would be caught in the 
commission, that she read the service 
shamefully, and slurred all the inter 
esting details over which we wanted 
to linger. Elizabeth had to prompt 
her repeatedly, and Tony s comments 
were indefensible at such a solemn 
hour. When the three rings had been 



In Our Convent Days 

placed upon the brides fingers, and the 
three veils bashfully raised to permit 
the salutations of the noble grooms, 
we promised to meet again in the boot 
and shoe closet, after the dormitory 
lights had been lowered, and hurried 
back to the schoolroom. To have 
played our parts openly in recreation 
hours would have been to destroy all 
the pleasures of illusion. Secrecy was 
indispensable, secrecy and mystery; 
a hurried clasp of Marie s hand, as 
she brushed by me to her desk; a 
languishing glance over our dictation 
books in class; a tender note slipped 
between the pages of my grammar. 
I have reason to believe I was the 
most cherished of the three brides. 
Tony was not likely to expend much 
energy in prolonged love-making, and 
Emily was wholly incapable of de 
monstration, even if Elizabeth would 
have tolerated it. But Marie was dra 
matic to her finger-tips; she played 
1 68 



Marriage Vows 

her part with infinite grace and zeal; 
and /I, being by nature both ardent 
and imitative, entered freely into her 
conception of our roles. We corre 
sponded at length, with that freedom 
of phrase and singleness of idea 
which make love letters such profit 
able reading. 

It was in our stolen meetings, how 
ever, in those happy reunions in the 
boot and shoe closet, or in another 
stuffy hole where our hats and coats 
were hung, that the expansive nature 
of our play was made delightfully 
manifest. It was then that we trav 
elled far and wide, meeting dangers 
with an unflinching front, and receiv 
ing everywhere the respectful wel 
come due to our rank and fortunes. 
We went to Rome, and the Holy 
Father greeted us with unfeigned joy. 
We went to Venice, and the Doge 
of whose passing we were blissfully 
ignorant took us a-pleasuring in the 
169 



In Our Convent Days 

Bucentaur. Our Stuart proclivities 
would not permit us to visit Victoria s 
court, that is, not as friends. Tony 
thirsted to go there and raise a row; 
but the young Pretender being dead 
(we ascertained this fact definitely 
from Madame Duncan, who read us 
a lecture on our ignorance), there 
seemed nobody to put in the place of 
the usurping queen. We crossed the 
desert on camels, and followed Pere 
Hue into Tartary and Thibet. Our 
husbands gave us magnificent jewels, 
and Lilly dropped her pearl earrings 
into a well, like " Albuharez Daugh 
ter " in the " Spanish Ballads." This 
charming mishap might have hap 
pened to me, if only I had been Prin 
cess of Castile. 

Then one day Elizabeth made a dis 
covery which filled me with confu 
sion. Before I came to school, I had 
parted with my few toys, feeling that 
paper dolls and grace-hoops were un- 
170 



Marriage Vows 

worthy of my new estate, and that I 
should never again condescend to the 
devices of my lonely childhood. The 
single exception was a small bisque 
doll with painted yellow curls. I had 
brought it to the convent in a moment 
of weakness, but no one was aware of 
its existence,. It was a neglected doll, 
nameless and wardrobeless, and its 
sole function was to sleep with me at 
night. Its days were spent in solitary 
confinement in my washstand drawer. 
This does not mean that evening 
brought any sense of exile to my heart. 
On the contrary, the night fears which 
at home made going to bed an ever 
repeated misery (I slept alone on a 
big, echoing third floor, and every 
body said what a brave little girl I 
was) had been banished by the secu 
rity of the dormitory, by the blessed 
sense of companionship and protec 
tion. Nevertheless, I liked to feel my 
doll in bed with me, and I might have 
171 



In Our Convent Days 

enjoyed its secret and innocent society 
all winter, had I not foolishly carried 
it downstairs one day in my pocket, 
and stowed it in a corner of my desk. 
The immediate consequence was de 
tection. 

"How did you come to have it?" 
asked Elizabeth, wondering. 

" Oh, it got put in somehow with 
my things," I answered evasively, and 
feeling very much ashamed. 

Elizabeth took the poor little toy, 
and looked at it curiously. She must 
have possessed such things once, but 
it was as hard to picture her with a 
doll as with a rattle. She seemed 
equally remote from both. As she 
turned it over, an inspiration came to 
her. " I tell you what we 11 do," she 
said; "we 11 take it for your baby, 
it s time one of us had a child, and 
we 11 get up a grand christening. Do 
you want a son or a daughter?" 

"I hope we won t have Annie 
172 



Marriage Vows 

Churchill for a priest," was my irrel 
evant answer. 

" No, we won t," said Elizabeth. 
" I 11 be the priest, and Tony and 
Lilly can be godparents. And then, 
after its christening, the baby can die, 
in its baptismal innocence, you 
know, and we 11 bury it." 

I was silent. Elizabeth raised her 
candid eyes to mine. " You don t 
want it, do you ? " she asked. 

" I don t want it," I answered slowly. 

Marie decided that, as our first-born 
was to die, it had better be a girl. A 
son and heir should live to inherit the 
estates. She contributed a handker 
chief for a christening robe; and Emily, 
who was generous to a fault, insisted 
on giving a little new work-basket, 
beautifully lined with blue satin, for a 
coffin. Lilly found a piece of white 
ribbon for a sash. Tony gave advice, 
and Elizabeth her priestly benediction. 
Beata Benedicta della Rovere (" That 



In Our Convent Days 

name shows she s booked for Hea 
ven," said Tony) was christened in 
the benitier&t the chapel door; Eliz 
abeth performing the ceremony, and 
Tony and Lilly unctuously renoun 
cing in her behalf the works and pomps 
of Satan. It was a more seemly ser 
vice than our wedding had been, but 
it was only a prelude, after all, to the 
imposing rites of burial. These were 
to take place at the recreation hour 
the following afternoon; but owing to 
the noble infant s noble kinsmen not 
having any recreation hour when the 
afternoon came, the obsequies were 
unavoidably postponed. 

It happened in this wise. Every day, 
in addition to our French classes, we 
had half an hour of French conversa 
tion, at which none of us ever will 
ingly conversed. All efforts to make 
us sprightly and loquacious failed 
signally. When questions were put 
to us, we answered them; but we 
74 



Marriage Vows 

never embarked of our own volition 
upon treacherous currents of speech. 
Therefore Madame Davide levied 
upon us a conversational tax, which, 
like some of the most oppressive taxes 
the world has ever known, made a 
specious pretence of being a voluntary 
contribution. Every girl in the class 
was called upon to recount some anec 
dote, some incident or story which 
she had heard, or read, or imagined, 
and which she was supposed to be 
politely eager to communicate to her 
comrades. We always began " Ma 
dame et mesdemoiselles, figurez- 
vous," or " il y avait une fois," and 
then launched ourselves feebly upon 
tales, the hopeless inanity of which 
harmonized with the spiritless fashion 
of the telling. We all felt this to be 
a degrading performance. Our tender 
pride was hurt by such a betrayal, be 
fore our friends, of our potential im 
becility. Moreover, the strain upon 



In Our Convent Days 

invention and memory was growing 
daily more severe. We really had no 
thing left to tell. Therefore five of us 
(Marie belonged to a higher class) 
resolved to indicate that our resources 
were at an end by telling the same 
story over and over again. We se 
lected for this purpose an Ollendorfian 
anecdote about a soldier in the army 
of Frederick the Great, who, having 
a watch chain but no watch, attached 
a bullet I can t conceive how 
to the chain; and, when Frederick 
asked him the hour of the day, replied 
fatuously: "My watch tells me that 
any hour is the time to die for your 
majesty." 

The combined improbability and 
stupidity of this tale commended it 
for translation, and the uncertainty as 
to the order of the telling lent an ele 
ment of piquancy to the plot. Happily 
for Lilly, she was called upon first 
to " reciter un conte," and, blushing 
176 



Marriage Vows 

and hesitating, she obeyed. Madame 
Davide listened with a pretence of 
interest that did her credit, and 
said that the soldier had " beaucoup 
d esprit;" at which Tony, who had 
pronounced him a fool, whistled a 
soft note of incredulity. After several 
other girls had enlivened the class 
with mournful pleasantries, my turn 
came, and I told the story as fast as 
I could, so fast that its character 
was not distinctly recognized until the 
last word was said. Madame Davide 
looked puzzled, but let it pass. Per 
haps she thought the resemblance 
accidental. But when Emily with im 
perturbable gravity began :" II y avait 
une fois un soldat, honnete et brave, 
dans Parmee de Frederic le Grand," 
and proceeded with the familiar de 
tails, she was sharply checked. " Faut 
pas repeter les memes contes," said 
Madame Davide; at which Emily, 
virtuous and pained, explained that it 
177 



In Our Convent Days 

was her conte. How could she help 
it if other girls chose it too? By this 
time the whole class had awakened 
to the situation, and was manifesting 
the liveliest interest and pleasure. It 
was almost pitiful to see children so 
grateful for a little mild diversion. 
Like the gratitude of Italian beggars 
for a few sous, it indicated painfully 
the desperate nature of their needs. 
There was a breathless gasp of ex 
pectancy when Elizabeth s name was 
called. We knew we could trust Eliz 
abeth. She was constitutionally in 
capable of a blunder. Every trace of 
expression was banished from her 
face, and in clear, earnest tones she 
said: " Madame et mesdemoiselles, 
il y avait une fois un soldat, honnete 
et brave, dans 1 armee de Frederic le 
Grand," whereupon there arose a 
shout of such uncontrollable delight 
that the class was dismissed, and we 
were all sent to our desks. Tony alone 

.78 



Marriage Vows 

was deeply chagrined. Through no 
fault of hers, she was for once out of 
a scrape, and she bitterly resented the 
exclusion. It was in consequence of 
this episode that Beata Benedicta s fu 
neral rites were postponed for twenty- 
four hours. 

The delay brought no consolation 
to my heart. It only prolonged my 
unhappiness. I did not love my doll 
after the honest fashion of a younger 
child. I did not really fear that I 
should miss her. But, what was in 
finitely worse, I could not bring my 
self to believe that Beata Benedicta 
was dead, although I was going to 
allow her to be buried. The line of 
demarcation between things that can 
feel and things that cannot had always 
been a wavering line for me. Perhaps 
Hans Andersen s stories, in which 
rush-lights and darning needles have 
as much life as boys and girls, were 
responsible for my mental confusion. 
179 



In Our Convent Days 

Perhaps I merely held on longer than 
most children to a universal instinct 
which they share with savages. Any 
familiar object, anything that I ha 
bitually handled, possessed some por 
tion of my own vitality. It was never 
wholly inanimate. Beata s little bisque 
body, with its outstretched arms, 
seemed to protest mutely but pite- 
ously against abandonment. She had 
lain by my side for months, and now 
I was going to let her be buried alive, 
because I was ashamed to rescue her. 
There was no help for it. Rather than 
confess I was such a baby, I would 
have been buried myself. 

A light fall of snow covered the 
frozen earth when we dug Beata s 
grave with our penknives, and laid 
her mournfully away. The site selected 
was back of the "Seven Dolours" cha 
pel (chapels are to convent grounds 
what arbours and summer-houses are 
to the profane), and we chose it be- 
180 



Marriage Vows 

cause the friendly walls hid us from 
observation. We had brought out our 
black veils, and we put them on over 
our hats, in token of our heavy grief. 
Elizabeth read the burial service, 
or as much of it as she deemed pru 
dent, for we dared not linger too long, 

and afterwards reassured us on the 
subject of Beata s baptismal innocence. 
That was the great point. She had 
died in her sinless infancy. We crime- 
laden souls should envy her happier 
fate. We put a little cross of twigs at 
the head of the grave, and promised 
to plant something there when the 
spring came. Then we took off our 
veils, and stuffed them in our pockets, 

those deep, capacious pockets of 
many years ago. 

" Let s race to the avenue gate," 
said Tony. " I m frozen stiff. Bury 
ing is cold work." 

" Or we might get one of the 
swings," said Lilly. 
181 



In Our Convent Days 

But Marie whose real name, I 
forgot to say, was Francesco put 
her arm tenderly around me. " Don t 
grieve, Beatrice," she said. " Our lit 
tle Beata has died in her baptis 
mal" 

" Oh, come away! " I cried, unable 
to bear the repetition of this phrase. 
And I ran as fast as I could down the 
avenue. But I could not run fast 
enough to escape from the voice of 
Beata Benedicta, calling calling tc 
me from her grave. 



Reverend Mother s Feast 

MOTHER S feast "in other 
words the saint s day of the 
Superioress was dawning 
upon our horizon, and its lights and 
shadows flecked our checkered paths. 
Theoretically, it was an occasion of 
pure joy, assuring us, as it did? a conge, 
and not a conge only, but the addi 
tional delights of a candy fair in the 
morning, and an operetta, " The Mir 
acle of the Roses," at night. Such a 
round of pleasures filled us with the 
happiest anticipations; but on the 
same principle that the Church always 
prefaces her feast days with vigils and 
with fasts the convent prefaced our 
conge with a competition in geography, 
and with the collection of a " spiritual 
bouquet," which was to be our offer 
ing to Reverend Mother on her fete. 
183 



In Our Convent Days 

A competition in anything was an 
unqualified calamity. It meant hours 
of additional study, a frantic memor 
izing of facts, fit only to be forgotten, 
and the bewildering ordeal of being 
interrogated before the whole school. 
It meant for me two little legs that 
shook like reeds, a heart that thumped 
like a hammer in my side, a sensation 
of sickening terror when the examiner 
Madame Bouron bore down upon 
me, and a mind reduced to sudden 
blankness, washed clean of any know 
ledge upon any subject, when the 
simplest question was asked. Tried 
by this process, I was only one degree 
removed from idiocy. Even Eliza 
beth, whose legs were as adamant, 
whose heart-beats had the regularity 
of a pendulum, and who, if she knew 
a thing, could say it, hated to bound 
states and locate capitals for all the 
school to hear. "There are to be 
prizes, too," she said mournfully. 
184 



Reverend Mother s Feast 

"Madame Duncan said so. I don t 
like going up for a prize. It s worse 
than a medal at Primes." 

" Oh, well, maybe you won t get 
one," observed Tony consolingly. 
" You did n t, you know, last time." 

" I did the time before last," said 
Elizabeth calmly. " It was * La Cor- 
beille de Fleurs. " 

There was an echo of resentment 
in her voice, and we all even Tony 
admitted that she had just cause 
for complaint. To reward successful 
scholarship with a French book was 
one of those black-hearted deeds for 
which we invariably held Madame 
Bouron responsible. She may have 
been blameless as the babe unborn; 
but it was our habit to attribute all 
our wrongs to her malign influence. 
We knew " La Corbeille de Fleurs." 
At least, we knew its shiny black 
cover, and its frontispiece, represent 
ing a sylphlike young lady in a float- 
185 



In Our Convent Days 

ing veil bearing a hamper of provisions 
to a smiling and destitute old gentle 
man. There was nothing in this pic 
ture, nor in the accompanying lines, 
"Que vois-je? Mon Dieu! Un ange 
de Ciel, qui vient a mon secours," 
which tempted us to a perusal of the 
story, even had we been in the habit 
of voluntarily reading French. 

As for the " spiritual bouquet," we 
felt that our failure to contribute to it 
on a generous scale was blackening 
our reputations forever. Every even 
ing the roll was called, and girl after 
girl gave in her list of benefactions. 
Rosaries, so many. Litanies, so many. 
Aspirations, so many. Deeds of kind 
ness, so many. Temptations resisted, 
so many. Trials offered up, so many. 
Acts, so many. A stranger, listening 
to the replies, might have imagined 
that the whole school was ripe for 
Heaven. These blossoms of virtue 
and piety were added every night to 
186 



Reverend Mother s Feast 

the bouquet; and the sum total, neatly 
written out in Madame Duncan s flow 
ing hand, was to be presented, with 
an appropriate address, to Reverend 
Mother on her feast, as a proof of our 
respectful devotion. 

It was a heavy tax. From what 
resources some girls drew their sup 
plies remained ever a mystery to us. 
How could Ellie Plunkett have found 
the opportunity to perform four deeds 
of kindness, and resist seven tempta 
tions, in a day? We never had any 
temptations to resist. Perhaps when 
one came along, we yielded to it so 
quickly that it had ceased to tempt 
before its true character had been 
ascertained. And to whom was Ellie 
Plunkett so overweeningly kind ? 
" Who wants Ellie Plunkett to be 
kind to her ? " was Tony s scornful 
query. There was Adelaide Harri 
son, too, actually turning in twenty 
acts as one day s crop, and smil- 



In Our Convent Days 

ing modestly when Madame Duncan 
praised her self-denial. Yet, to our un- 
warped judgment, she seemed much 
the same as ever. We, at least, re 
fused to accept her estimate of her own 
well-spent life. 

" Making an act " was the convent 
phraseology for doing without some 
thing one wanted, for stopping short 
on the verge of an innocent gratifica 
tion. If I gave up my place in the 
swing to Viola Milton, that was an 
act. If I walked to the woods with 
Annie Churchill, when I wanted to 
walk with Elizabeth, that was an act. 
If I ate my bread unbuttered, or drank 
my tea unsweetened, that was an act. 
It will be easily understood that the 
constant practice of acts deprived life 
of everything that made it worth the 
living. We were so trained in this 
system of renunciation that it was im 
possible to enjoy even the very sim 
ple pleasures that our convent table 
1 88 



Reverend Mother s Feast 

afforded. If there were anything we 
particularly liked, our nagging little 
consciences piped up with their intol 
erable " Make an act, make an act ; " 
and it was only when the last mouth 
ful was resolutely swallowed that we 
could feel sure we had triumphed 
over asceticism. There was some 
thing maddening in the example set us 
by our neighbours, by those virtuous 
and pious girls who hemmed us in at 
study time and at our meals. When 
Mary Rawdon gently waved aside the 
chocolate custard which was the 
very best chocolate custard it has ever 
been my good fortune to eat and 
whispered to me as she did so, " An 
act for the bouquet ; " I whispered 
back, "Take it, and give it to me," 
and held out my plate with defiant 
greed. Annie Churchill told us she 
had n t eaten any butter for a week ; 
whereat Tony called her an idiot, and 
Annie usually the mildest of girls 
189 



In Our Convent Days 

said that " envy at another s spirit 
ual good " was a very great sin, and 
that Tony had committed it. There 
is nothing so souring to the temper 
as abstinence. 

What made it singularly hard to 
sacrifice our young lives for the swell 
ing of a spiritual bouquet was that 
Reverend Mother, who was to profit 
by our piety, had so little significance 
in our eyes. She was as remote from 
the daily routine of the school as the 
Grand Lama is remote from the hum 
ble Thibetans whom he rules; and if 
we regarded her with a lively awe, it 
was only because of her aloofness, of 
the reserves that hedged her majes 
tically round. She was an Englishwo 
man of good family, and of vast bulk. 
There was a tradition that she had 
been married and widowed before 
she became a nun; but this was a 
subject upon which we were not en 
couraged to talk. It was considered 
190 



Reverend Mother s Feast 

both disrespectful and indecorous. 
Reverend Mother s voice was slow 
and deep, a ponderous voice to suit 
her ponderous size; and she spoke 
with what seemed to us a strange and 
barbarous accent, pronouncing cer 
tain words in a manner which I have 
since learned was common in the 
days of Queen Elizabeth, and which 
a few ripe scholars are now en 
deavouring to reintroduce. She was 
near-sighted to the verge of blind 
ness, and always at Mass used a large 
magnifying glass, like the one held by 
Leo the Tenth in Raphael s portrait. 
She was not without literary tastes 
of an insipid and obsolete order, the 
tastes of an English gentlewoman, 
reared in the days when young ladies 
read the " Female Spectator," and 
warbled " Oh, no, we never mention 
her." Had she not " entered reli 
gion," she might have taken Moore 
and Byron to her heart, as did one 
191 



In Our Convent Days 

little girl whose "Childe Harold" 
lay deeply hidden in a schoolroom 
desk, but the rejection of these 
profane poets had left her stranded 
upon such feeble substitutes as Letitia 
Elizabeth Landon, whose mysterious 
death she was occasionally heard to 
deplore. 

Twice on Sundays Reverend Mo 
ther crossed our orbit; in the morn 
ing, when she instructed the whole 
school in Christian doctrine, and at 
night, when she presided over Primes. 
During the week we saw her only at 
Mass. We should never even have 
known about Letitia Elizabeth Lan- 
don, had she not granted an occa 
sional audience to the graduates, and 
discoursed to them sleepily upon the 
books she had read in her youth. 
Whatever may have been her quali 
fications for her post (she had sur 
passing dignity of carriage, and was 
probably a woman of intelligence and 
192 



Reverend Mother s Feast 

force), to us she was a mere embodi 
ment of authority, as destitute of per 
sonal malice as of personal charm. I 
detested Madame Bouron, and loved 
Madame Rayburn. Elizabeth de 
tested Madame Bouron, and loved 
Madame Dane. Emily detested Ma 
dame Bouron, and loved Madame 
Duncan. These were emotions, amply 
nourished, and easily understood. We 
were capable of going to great lengths 
to prove either our aversion or our 
love. But to give up chocolate cus 
tard for Reverend Mother was like 
suffering martyrdom for a creed we 
did not hold. 

" It s because Reverend Mother is 
so fond of geography that we re going 
to have the competition," said Lilly. 
" Madame Duncan told me so." 

"Why can t Reverend Mother, if 
she likes it so much, learn it for her 
self ? " asked Tony sharply. " I 11 lend 
her my atlas." 



In Our Convent Days 

" Oh, she knows it all," said Lilly, 
rather scandalized. " Madame Dun 
can told me it was her favourite study, 
and that she knew the geography of 
the whole world." 

" Then I don t see why she wants 
to hear us say it," observed Elizabeth, 
apparently under the impression that 
competitions, like gladiatorial shows, 
were gotten up solely for the amuse 
ment of an audience. It never occurred 
to her, nor indeed to any of us, to 
attach any educational value to the 
performance. We conceived that we 
were butchered to make a convent 
holiday. 

" And it s because Reverend Mo 
ther is so fond of music that we are 
going to have an operetta instead of a 
play," went on Lilly, pleased to have 
information to impart. 

I sighed heavily. How could any 
body prefer anything to a play? I re 
cognized an operetta as a form of 
194 



Reverend Mother s Feast 

diversion, and was grateful for it, as I 
should have been grateful for any en 
tertainment, short of an organ recital. 
We were none of us surfeited with 
pleasures. But to me song was at best 
only an imperfect mode of speech; 
and the meaningless repetition of a 
phrase, which needed to be said but 
once, vexed my impatient spirit. We 
were already tolerably familiar with 
" The Miracle of the Roses." For two 
weeks past the strains had floated from 
every music room. We could hear, 
through the closed doors, Frances 
Fenton, who was to be St. Elizabeth 
of Hungary, quavering sweetly, 

"Unpretending and lowly, 
Like spirits pure and holy, 
I love the wild rose best, 
I love the wild rose best, 
I love the wi-i-ild rose best." 

We could hear Ella Holrook announ 
cing in her deep contralto, 
95 



In Our Convent Days 

44 *T is the privilege of a Landgrave 
To go where glory waits him, 
Glory waits him ; " 

and the chorus trilling jubilantly, 

44 Heaven has changed the bread to roses, 
Heaven has changed the bread to roses." 

Why, I wondered, did they have to say 
everything two and three times over ? 
Even when the Landgrave detects St. 
Elizabeth in the act of carrying the 
loaves to the poor, his anger finds a 
vent in iteration. 

44 Once again you Ve dared to brave my anger, 
Yes, once again you Ve dared to brave my 
anger ; 

My power you scorn, 
My power you scorn." 

To which the Saint replies gently, but 
tediously, 

44 My lord they are, 
My lord they are 
But simple roses, 
But simple ro-o-oses, 
That I gathered in the garden even now." 
196 



Reverend Mother s Feast 

" Suppose that bread had n t been 
changed to roses," said Elizabeth 
speculatively, " I wonder what St. 
Elizabeth would have done." 

" Oh, she knew it had been, because 
she prayed it would be," said Marie, 
who was something of a theologian. 

" But suppose it had n t." 

" But it had) and she knew it had, 
because of her piety and faith," insisted 
Marie. 

" I should n t have liked to risk it," 
murmured Elizabeth. 

" / think her husband was a pig," 
said Tony. " Going off to the Crusade, 
and making all that fuss about a few 
loaves of bread. If I d been St. Eliz 
abeth" 

She paused, determining her course 
of action, and Marie ruthlessly inter 
posed. " If you re not a saint, you 
can t tell what you would do if you 
were a saint. You would be differ 
ent." 

197 



In Our Convent Days 

There was no doubt that Tony as a 
saint would have to be so very differ 
ent from the Tony whom we knew, 
that Marie s dogmatism prevailed. 
Even Elizabeth was silenced; and, in 
the pause that followed, Lilly had a 
chance to impart her third piece of 
information. " It s because Reverend 
Mother s name is Elizabeth," she said, 
" that we re going to have an oper 
etta about St. Elizabeth; and Bessie 
Treves is to make the address." 

" Thank Heaven, there is another 
Elizabeth in the school, or I might 
have to do it," cried our Elizabeth, 
who coveted no barren honours ; and 
even as she spoke the blow fell. 
Madame Rayburn appeared at the 
schoolroom door, a folded paper in 
her hand. "Elizabeth," she said, and, 
with a hurried glance of apprehension, 
the saint s unhappy namesake with 
drew. We looked atone another mean 
ingly. " It s like giving thanks before 
198 



Reverend Mother s Feast 

you re sure of dinner," chuckled 
Tony. 

I had no chance to hear any par 
ticulars until night, when Elizabeth 
watched her opportunity, and sallied 
forth to brush her teeth while I was 
dawdling over mine. The strictest si 
lence prevailed in the dormitories, and 
no child left her alcove except for the 
ceremony of tooth-brushing, which 
was performed at one of two large 
tubs, stationed in the middle of the 
floor. These tubs blessed be their 
memory ! served as centres of gos 
sip. Friend met friend, and smothered 
confidences were exchanged. Our gay 
est witticisms, hastily choked by a 
toothbrush, our oldest and dearest 
jests were whispered brokenly to the 
accompaniment of little splashes of 
water. It was the last social event of 
our long social day, and we welcomed 
it as freshly as if we had not been 
in close companionship since seven 
199 



In Our Convent Days 

o clock in the morning. Elizabeth, 
scrubbing her teeth with ostentatious 
vigour, found a chance to tell me, be 
tween scrubs, that Bessie Treves had 
been summoned home for a week, and 
that she, as the only other bearer of 
Reverend Mother s honoured name, 
had been chosen to make the address. 
" It s the feast of St. Elizabeth," she 
whispered, " and the operetta is about 
St. Elizabeth, and they want an Eliz 
abeth to speak. I wish I had been 
christened Melpomene." 

" You could n t have been chris 
tened Melpomene," I whispered back, 
keeping a watchful eye upon Madame 
Chapelle, who was walking up and 
down the dormitory, saying her beads. 
" It is n t a Christian name. There 
never was a St. Melpomene." 

" It s nearly three pages long," said 
Elizabeth, alluding to the address, and 
not to the tragic Muse. "All about 
the duties of women, and how they 



200 



Reverend Mother s Feast 

ought to stay at home and be kind to 
the poor, like St. Elizabeth, and let 
their husbands go to the Crusades." 

"But there are no Crusades any 
more for their husbands to go to," I 
objected. 

Elizabeth looked at me restively. 
She did not like this fractious humour. 
" I mean let their husbands go to 
war," she said. 

" But if there are no wars," I began, 
when Madame Chapelle, who had not 
been so inattentive as I supposed, in 
tervened. " Elizabeth and Agnes, go 
back to your alcoves," she said. " You 
have been quite long enough brushing 
your teeth." 

I flirted my last drops of water over 
Elizabeth, and she returned the favour 
with interest, having more left in her 
tumbler than I had. It was our cus 
tomary good-night. Sometimes, when 
we were wittily disposed, we said 
"Asperges me" That was one of the 
201 



In Our Convent Days 

traditional jests of the convent. Gen 
erations of girls had probably said it 
before us. Our language was enriched 
with scraps of Latin and apt quota 
tions, borrowed from Church services, 
the Penitential Psalms, and the cate 
chism. 

For two days Elizabeth studied the 
address, and for two days more she 
rehearsed it continuously under Ma 
dame Rayburn s tutelage. At inter 
vals she recited portions of it to us, 
and we favoured her with our candid 
criticisms. Tony objected vehemently 
to the very first line: 

" A woman s path is ours to humbly tread." 

She said she did n t intend to tread it 
humbly at all; that Elizabeth might 
be as humble as she pleased (Eliza 
beth promptly disclaimed any personal 
sympathy with the sentiment), and 
that Marie and Agnes were welcome 
to all the humility they could practise 
202 



Reverend Mother s Feast 

(Marie and Agnes rejected their share 
of the virtue), but that she Tony 
was tired of behaving like an af 
fable worm. To this, Emily, with 
more courage than courtesy, replied 
that a worm Tony might be, but an 
affable worm, never; and Elizabeth 
headed off any further retort by hur 
rying on with the address. 
* A woman s path is ours to humbly tread, 
And yet to lofty heights our hopes are led. 
We may not share the Senate s stern debate, 
Nor guide with faltering hand the helm of 

state ; 

Ours is the holier right to soften party hate, 
And teach the lesson, lofty and divine, 
Ambition s fairest flowers are laid at Virtue s 
shrine." 

" Have you any idea what all that 
means ? " asked Marie discontent 
edly. 

" Oh, I don t have to say what it 

means," returned Elizabeth, far too 

sensible to try to understand anything 

she would not be called upon to ex- 

203 



In Our Convent Days 

plain. " Reverend Mother makes that 
out for herself." 

" Not ours the right to guide the battle s storm, 
Where strength and valour deathless deeds 

perform. 
Not ours to bind the blood-stained laurel 

wreath 
In mocking triumph round the brow of 

death. 

No ! t is our lot to save the failing breath, 
T is ours to heal each wound, and hush 

each moan, 
To take from other hearts the pain into our 

own." 

" It seems to me," said Tony, " that 
we are expected to do all the work, 
and have none of the fun." 

" It seems to me" said Marie, " that 
by the time we have filled ourselves 
up with other people s pains, we won t 
care much about fun. Did Reverend 
Mother, I wonder, heal wounds and 
hush up moans ? " 

" St. Elizabeth did," explained Eliza 
beth. " Her husband went to the Holy 
204 



Reverend Mother s Feast 

Land, and was killed, and then she 
became a nun. There are some lines 
at the end, that I don t know yet, 
about Reverend Mother, 

" Seeking the shelter of the cloister gate, 
Like the dear Saint whose name we ven 
erate. 

Madame Rayburn wants me to make 
an act, and learn the rest of it at re 
creation this afternoon. That horrid 
old geography takes up all my study 
time." 

" I ve made three acts to-day," ob 
served Lilly complacently, "and said 
a whole pair of beads this morning at 
Mass for the spiritual bouquet." 

" I have n t made one act," I cried 
aghast. " I have n t done anything at 
all, and I don t know what to do." 

" You might make one now," said 
Elizabeth thoughtfully, " and go talk 
to Adelaide Harrison." 

I glanced at Adelaide, who was 
sitting on the edge of her desk, ab- 
205 



In Our Convent Days 

sorbed in a book. " Oh, I don t want 
to," I wailed. 

" If you wanted to, it would n t be 
an act," said Elizabeth. 

" But she does n t want me to," I 
urged. " She is reading ( Fabiola. " 

" Then you 11 give her the chance 
to make an act, too," said the relent 
less Elizabeth. 

Argued into a corner, I turned at 
bay. "I won t," I said resolutely; to 
which Elizabeth replied: "Well, I 
would n t either, in your place," and 
the painful subject was dropped. 

Four days before the feast the ex 
citement had reached fever point, 
though the routine of school life went 
on with the same smooth precision. 
Every penny had been hoarded up 
for the candy fair. It was with the 
utmost reluctance that we bought 
even the stamps for our home letters, 
those weekly letters we were com 
pelled to write, and which were such 
206 



Reverend Mother s Feast 

pale reflections of our eager and vehe 
ment selves. Perhaps this was be 
cause we knew that every line was 
read by Madame Bouron before it left 
the convent; perhaps the discipline 
of those days discouraged familiarity 
with our parents; perhaps the barrier 
which nature builds between the adult 
and the normal child was alone re 
sponsible for our lack of spontaneity. 
Certain it is that the stiffly written 
pages despatched to father or to mo 
ther every Sunday night gave no hint 
of our abundant and restless vital 
ity, our zest for the little feast of 
life, our exaltations, our resentments, 
our thrice-blessed absurdities. En 
trenched in the citadel of childhood, 
with laws of our own making, and 
passwords of our own devising, our 
souls bade defiance to the world. 

If all our hopes centred in the 
conge, the candy fair, and the oper 
etta, which was to be produced on 
207 



In Our Convent Days 

a scale of unwonted magnificence, 
our time was sternly devoted to the 
unpitying exactions of geography. 
Every night we took our atlases to 
bed with us, under the impression 
that sleeping on a book would help us 
to remember its contents. As the 
atlases were big, and our pillows very 
small, this device was pregnant with 
discomfort. On the fourth night be 
fore the feast, something wonderful 
happened. It was the evening study 
hour, and I was wrestling sleepily 
with the mountains of Asia, hideous 
excrescences with unpronounceable 
and unrememberable names, when 
Madame Rayburn entered the room. 
As we rose to our feet, we saw that 
she looked very grave, and our minds 
took a backward leap over the day. 
Had we done anything unusually bad, 
anything that could call down upon 
us a public indictment, and was 
Madame Rayburn for once filling 
208 



Reverend Mother s Feast 

Madame Bouron s office? We could 
think of nothing; but life was full of 
pitfalls, and there was no sense of 
security in our souls. We waited 
anxiously. 

" Children," said Madame Ray- 
burn, " I have sorrowful news for 
you. Reverend Mother has been sum 
moned to France. She sails on her 
feast day, and leaves for New York 



to-morrow." 



We stared open-mouthed and 
aghast. The ground seemed sinking 
from under our feet, the walls crum 
bling about us. Reverend Mother sail 
ing for France ! And on her feast day, 
too, the feast for which so many 
ardent preparations had been made. 
The conge, the competition, the ad 
dress, the operetta, the spiritual bou 
quet, the candy fair, were they, too, 
sailing away into the land of lost 
things ? To have asked one of the 
questions that trembled on our lips 
209 



In Our Convent Days 

would have been an unheard-of liberty. 
We listened in respectful silence, our 
eyes riveted on Madame Rayburn s 
face. 

"You will all go to the chapel 
now," she said. " To-night we begin 
a novena to Mater Admirabilis for 
Reverend Mother s safe voyage. She 
dreads it very much, and she is sad at 
leaving you. Pray for her devoutly. 
Madame Dane will bring you down to 
the chapel." 

She turned to go. Our hearts beat 
violently. She knew, she could not 
fail to know, the thought that was 
uppermost in every mind. She was 
too experienced and too sympathetic 
to miss the significance of our strained 
and wistful gaze. A shadowy smile 
crossed her face. " Madame Bouron 
would have told you to-morrow," she 
said, "what I think I shall tell you 
to-night. It is Reverend Mother s 
express desire that you should have 



210 



Reverend Mother s Feast 

your conge on her feast, though she 
will not be here to enjoy it with you." 
A sigh of relief, a sigh which we 
could not help permitting to be audi 
ble, shivered softly around the room. 
The day was saved ; yet, as we 
marched to the chapel, there was a 
turmoil of agitation in our hearts. We 
knew that from far-away France 
from a mysterious and all-powerful 
person who dwelt there, and who was 
called Mother General came the 
mandates which governed our com 
munity. This was not the first sud 
den departure we had witnessed ; but 
Reverend Mother seemed so august, 
so permanent, so immobile. Her 
very size protested mutely against 
upheaval. Should we never again 
see that familiar figure sitting in her 
stall, peering through her glass into a 
massive prayer-book, a leviathan of 
prayer-books, as imposing in its way 
as she was, or blinking sleepily at us 

211 



In Our Convent Days 

as we filed by ? Why, if somebody 
were needed in France, had it not 
pleased Mother General to send for 
Madame Bouron ? Many a dry eye 
would have seen her go. But then, 
as Lilly whispered to me, suppose it 
had been Madame Rayburn. There 
was a tightening of my heart-strings 
at the thought, a sudden suffocating 
pang, dimly foreboding the grief of 
another year. 

The consensus of opinion, as ga 
thered that evening in the dormitory, 
was not unlike the old Jacobite epi 
taph on Frederick, Prince of Wales. 
Every one of us was sincerely sorry 
that Madame Bouron had not been 
summoned, 

* Had it been his father, 
We had much rather ; " 

but glad that Madame Dane, or Ma 
dame Rayburn, or Madame Duncan, or 
some other favourite nun had escaped, 

212 



Reverend Mother s Feast 

44 Since it s only Fred 
Who was alive, and is dead, 
There is no more to be said." 

The loss of our Superioress was be 
wildering, but not, for us, a thing of 
deep concern. We should sleep as 
sweetly as usual that night. 

The next morning we were all ga 
thered into the big First Cours class 
room, where Reverend Mother came 
to bid us good-by. It was a solemn 
leave-taking. The address was no 
longer in order; but the spiritual 
bouquet had been made up the night 
before, and was presented in our 
name by Madame Bouron, who read 
out the generous sum-total of prayers, 
and acts, and offered-up trials, and 
resisted temptations, which consti 
tuted our feast-day gift. As Reverend 
Mother listened, I saw a large tear 
roll slowly down her cheek, and my 
heart smote me my heart was al 
ways smiting me when it was too 
213 



In Our Convent Days 

late that I had contributed so mea 
grely to the donation. I remembered 
the chocolate custard, and thought 
for one mistaken moment that I 
should never want to taste of that be 
loved dish again. Perhaps if I had 
offered it up, Reverend Mother would 
cross the sea in safety. Perhaps, be 
cause I ate it, she would have storms, 
and be drowned. The doubtful justice 
of this arrangement was no more ap 
parent to me than its unlikelihood. 
We were accustomed to think that 
the wide universe was planned and 
run for our reward and punishment. 
A rainy Sunday following the mis 
deeds of Saturday was to us a logical 
sequence of events. 

When the bouquet had been pre 
sented, Reverend Mother said a few 
words of farewell. She said them as 
if she were sad at heart, not only at 
crossing the ocean, not only at parting 
from her community, but at leaving us, 
214 



Reverend Mother s Feast 

as well. I suppose she loved us col 
lectively. She could n t have loved us 
individually, knowing us only as two 
long rows of uniformed, curtsying 
schoolgirls, whose features she was 
too near-sighted to distinguish. On 
the other hand, if our charms and our 
virtues were lost to her, so were our 
less engaging qualities. Perhaps, taken 
collectively, we were rather lovable. 
Our uniforms were spotless, our hair 
superlatively smooth, no blowsy, 
tossing locks, as in these days of lib 
ertinism, and our curtsies as graceful 
as hours of practice could make 
them. We sank and rose like the 
crest of a wave. On the whole, Rev 
erend Mother had the best of us. 
Madame Bouron might have been 
pardoned for taking a less sentimental 
view of the situation. 

That afternoon, while we were at 
French class, Reverend Mother de 
parted. We heard the carriage roll 
215 



In Our Convent Days 

away, but were not permitted to rush 
to the windows and look at it, which 
would have been a welcome distrac 
tion from our verbs. An hour later, 
at recreation, Madame Rayburn sent 
for Elizabeth. She was gone fifteen 
minutes, and came back, tense with 
suppressed excitement. 

"Oh, what is it?" we cried. "The 
conge is all right ? " 

" All right," said Elizabeth. 

" And the candy fair? " asked Lilly, 
whose father had given her a dollar 
to squander upon sweets. 

" Oh, it s all right, too. The candy 
is here now; and Ella Holrook and 
Mary Denniston and Isabel Summers 
are to have charge of the tables. Ma 
dame Dane told me that yesterday." 

Our faces lightened, and then fell, 
" Is it the competition ? " I asked 
apprehensively. 

Elizabeth looked disconcerted. It 
was plain she knew nothing about the 
216 



Reverend Mother s Feast 

competition, and hated to avow her 
ignorance. We always felt so impor 
tant when we had news to tell. "Of 
course, after studying all that geogra 
phy, we 11 have to say it sooner or 
later," she said. "But" a triumph 
ant pause "a new Reverend Mother 
is coming to-morrow." 

" del! " murmured Marie, relaps 
ing into agitated French; while Tony 
whistled softly, and Emily and I stared 
at each other in silence. The speed 
with which things were happening 
took our breath away. 

" Coming to-morrow," repeated 
Elizabeth; "and I m going to say 
the address as a welcome to her, on 
the night of the conge, before the 
operetta." 

"Is her name Elizabeth, too?" I 
asked, bewildered. 

" No, her name is Catherine. Ma 
dame Rayburn is going to leave out 
the lines about St. Elizabeth, and put 
217 



In Our Convent Days 

in something about St. Catherine of 
Siena instead. That s why she wanted 
the address. And she is going to 
change the part about not sharing the 
Senate s stern debate, nor guiding 
with faltering hand the helm of state, 
because St. Catherine did guide the 
helm of state. At least, she went to 
Avignon, and argued with the Pope." 

" Argued with the Pope ! " echoed 
Marie, scandalized. 

" She was a saint, Marie," said Eliz 
abeth impatiently, and driving home 
an argument with which Marie her 
self had familiarized us. " She per 
suaded the Pope to go back to Rome. 
Madame Rayburn would like Kate 
Shaw to make the address; but she 
says there is n t time for another girl 
to study it." 

" When is the feast of St. Catherine 
of Siena? " cried Tony, fired suddenly 
by a happy thought. " Maybe we 11 
have another conge then." 
218 



Reverend Mother s Feast 

She rushed off to consult her prayer- 
book. Lilly followed her, and in a 
moment their two heads were pressed 
close together, as they scanned the 
Roman calendar hopefully. But be 
fore my eyes rose the image of 
Reverend Mother, our lost Reverend 
Mother, with the slow teardrop roll 
ing down her cheek. Her operetta 
was to be sung to another. Her ad 
dress was to be made to another. Her 
very saint was pushed aside in honour 
of another holy patroness. " The King 
is dead. Long live the King." 



The Game of Love 

IT was an ancient and honourable 
convent custom for the little girls 
in the Second Cours to cultivate 
an ardent passion for certain carefully 
selected big girls in the First Cours, 
to hold a court of love, and vie with 
one another in extravagant demon 
strations of affection. We were called 
" satellites," and our homage was un 
derstood to be of that noble and ex 
alted nature which is content with 
self-immolation. No response of any 
kind was ever vouchsafed us. No 
favours of any kind were ever granted 
us. The objects of our devotion 
ripe scholars sixteen and seventeen 
years old regarded us either with 
good-humoured indifference or un 
qualified contempt. Any other line of 
action on their part would have been 
220 



The Game of Love 

unprecedented and disconcerting. 
We did not want petting. We were 
not the lap-dog variety of children. 
We wanted to play the game of love 
according to set rules, rules which 
we found in force when we came to 
school, and which we had no mind 
to alter. 

Yet one of these unwritten laws 
which set a limit to inconstancy I 
had already broken; and Elizabeth, 
who was an authority on the code, 
offered a grave remonstrance. " We 
really don t change that quickly," she 
said with concern. 

I made no answer. I had " changed " 
very quickly, and, though incapable of 
self-analysis, I was not without a dim 
foreboding that I would change again. 

" You were wild about Isabel Sum 
mers," went on Elizabeth accusingly. 

" No, I was n t," I confessed. 

" But you said you were." 

Again I was silent. The one thing 



221 



In Our Convent Days 

a child cannot do is explain a com 
plicated situation, even to another 
child. How could I hope to make 
Elizabeth understand that, eager to 
worship at some shrine, I had chosen 
Isabel Summers with a deliberation 
that boded ill for my fidelity. She 
was a thin, blue-eyed girl, with a 
delicate purity of outline, and heavy 
braids of beautiful fair hair. Her love 
liness, her sensitive temperament, her 
early and tragic death (she was 
drowned the following summer), en 
shrined her sweetly in our memories. 
She became one of the traditions of 
the school, and we told her tale as 
of another Virginia to all new 
comers. But in the early days when 
I laid my heart at her feet, I knew 
only that she had hair like pale sun 
shine, and that, for a First Cours girl, 
she was strangely tolerant of my at 
tentions. If I ventured to offer her 
the dozen chestnuts that had rewarded 

222 



The Game of Love 

an hour s diligent search, she thanked 
me for them with a smile. If I darned 
her stockings with painstaking neat 
ness, a privilege solicited from 
Sister O Neil, who had the care of 
our clothes, she sometimes went so 
far as to commend my work. I felt 
that I was blessed beyond my com 
rades (Ella Holrook snubbed Tony, 
and Antoinette Mayo ignored Lilly s 
existence), yet there were moments 
when I detected a certain insipidity 
in the situation. It lacked the incen 
tive of impediment. 

Then in November, Julia Reynolds, 
who had been absent, I know not 
why, returned to school; and I realized 
the difference between cherishing a 
tender passion and being consumed 
by one, between fanning a flame and 
being burned. To make all this clear 
to Elizabeth, who was passion proof, 
lay far beyond my power. When she 
said, 

223 



In Our Convent Days 

" Holy Saint Francis ! what a change is here," 
or words to that effect, I had 
not even Romeo s feeble excuses to 
offer, though I was as obstinate as 
Romeo in clinging to my new love. 
Tony supported me, having a roving 
fancy of her own, and being constant 
to Ella Holrook, only because that 
imperious graduate regarded her as 
an intolerable nuisance. 

Julia s views on the subject of satel 
lites were even more pronounced. She 
enjoyed a painful popularity in the 
Second Cours, and there were always 
half a dozen children abjectly and 
irritatingly in love with her. She was 
held to be the cleverest girl in the 
school, a reputation skilfully main 
tained by an unbroken supercilious 
ness of demeanour. Her handsome 
mouth was set in scornful lines; her 
words, except to chosen friends, were 
few and cold. She carried on an 
internecine warfare with Madame 
224 



The Game of Love 

Bouron, fighting that redoubtable nun 
with her own weapons, icy com 
posure, a mock humility, and polite 
phrases that carried a hidden sting. It 
was for this, for her arrogance, she 
was as contemptuous as a cat, and 
for a certain elusiveness, suggestive 
even to my untrained mind of new 
and strange developments, that I sur 
rendered to her for a season all of my 
heart, all of it, at least, that was not 
the permanent possession of Madame 
Rayburn and Elizabeth. 

Elizabeth was not playing the game. 
She was nobody s satellite just then, 
being occupied with a new cult for a 
new nun, whom it pleased her to have 
us all adore. The new nun, Madame 
Dane, was a formidable person, whom, 
left to myself, I should have timor 
ously avoided; but for whom, follow 
ing Elizabeth s example, I acquired 
in time a very creditable enthusiasm. 
She was tall and high-shouldered, and 
225 



In Our Convent Days 

she had what Colley Gibber felicitously 
describes as a " poking head." We, 
who had yet to hear of Colley Gibber, 
admired this peculiar carriage, 
Elizabeth said it was aristocratic, 
and we imitated it as far as we dared, 
which was not very far, our shoulders 
being as rigorously supervised as our 
souls. Any indication of a stoop on 
my part was checked by an hour s 
painful promenade up and down the 
corridor, with a walking-stick held 
between my elbows and my back, and 
a heavy book balanced on my head. 
The treatment was efficacious. Rather 
than be so wearisomely ridiculous, I 
held myself straight as a, dart. 

Madame Dane, for all her lack of 
deportment, was the stiffest and stern 
est of martinets. She had a passion 
for order, for precision, for symmetry. 
It was, I am sure, a lasting griev 
ance to her that we were of different 
heights, and that we could never 
226 



The Game of Love 

acquire the sameness and immobility 
of chessmen. She did her best by 
arranging and rearranging us in the 
line of procession when we marched 
down to the chapel, unable to decide 
whether Elizabeth was a hair s breadth 
taller than Tony, whether Mary Ayl- 
mer and Eloise Didier matched ex 
actly, whether Viola had better walk 
before Maggie McCullah, or behind 
her. She never permitted us to open 
our desks during study hours, or when 
we were writing our exercises. This 
was a general rule, but Madame Dane 
alone enforced it absolutely. If I for 
got to take my grammar or my natural 
philosophy out of my desk when I sat 
down to work (and I was an addle- 
pated child who forgot everything), 
I had to go to class with my grammar 
or my natural philosophy unstudied, 
and bear the consequences. To have 
borrowed my neighbour s book would 
have been as great a breach of disci- 
227 



In Our Convent Days 

pline as to have hunted for my own. 
At night and morning prayers we 
were obliged to lay our folded hands 
in exactly the same position on the 
second rung of our chair backs. If 
we lifted them unconsciously to the 
top rung, Madame Dane swooped 
down upon us like a falcon upon er 
rant doves, which was dreadfully 
distracting to our devotions. 

"I don t see how she stands our 
hair being of different lengths/ said 
Tony. " It must worry her dread 
fully. I caught her the other night 
eyeing Eloise Didier s long plats and 
my little pigtails in a most uneasy 
manner. Some day she 11 insist on 
our all having it cut short, like Eliza 
beth and Agnes." 

"That would be sensible," said 
Elizabeth stoutly, while Lilly put up 
her hands with a quick, instinctive 
gesture, as if to save her curly locks 
from destruction. 

228 



The Game of Love 

" Tou need n t talk," went on Tony 
with impolite emphasis, " after what 
you made her go through last Sunday. 
You and Agnes in your old black 
veils. I don t believe she was able to 
read her Mass prayers for looking at 
you." 

Elizabeth grinned. She was not 
without a humorous enjoyment of 
the situation. Our black veils, which 
throughout the week were considered 
decorous and devotional, indicated on 
Sundays when white veils were in 
order a depth of unpardoned and 
unpardonable depravity. When Eliz 
abeth and I were condemned to weai 
ours to Sunday Mass and Vespers, 
two little black sheep in that vast 
snowy flock, we were understood 
to be, for the time, moral lepers, to 
be cut off from spiritual communion 
with the elect. We were like those 
eminent sinners who, in the good old 
days when people had an eye to effect, 
229 



In Our Convent Days 

did penance in sheets and with lighted 
tapers at cathedral doors, thus add 
ing immeasurably to the interest of 
church-going, and to the general pic- 
turesqueness of life. The ordeal was 
not for us the harrowing thing it 
seemed. Elizabeth s practical mind 
had but a feeble grasp of symbols. 
Burne-Jones and Maeterlinck would 
have conveyed no message to her, and 
a black veil amid the Sunday white 
ness failed to disturb her, equanimity. 
As for me, I was content to wear what 
Elizabeth wore. Where MacGregor 
sat was always the head of the table. 
The one real sufferer was the inno 
cent Madame Dane, whose Sabbath 
was embittered by the sight of two 
sable spots staining the argent field, 
and by the knowledge that the culprits 
were her own Second Cours children, 
for whom she held herself responsible. 
" She told me," said Elizabeth, "that 
if ever I let such a thing happen to 
230 



The Game of Love 

me again, I should n t walk by her 
side all winter." 

Lilly lifted her eyebrows, and Tony 
gave a grunt of deep significance. It 
meant that this would be an endurable 
misfortune. A cult was all very well, 
and Tony, like the rest of us, was pre 
pared to play an honourable part. But 
Elizabeth s persistent fancy for walk 
ing by our idol s side at recreation 
had become a good deal of a nuisance. 
We considered that Madame Dane 
was, for a grown-up person, singularly 
vivacious and agreeable. She told us 
some of Poe s stories notably "The 
Pit and the Pendulum " in a manner 
which nearly stopped the beating of 
our hearts. We were well disposed 
even to her rigours. There was a 
straightforwardness about her meth 
ods which commended itself to our 
sense of justice no less than to our 
sense of humour. She dealt with us 
after fashions of her own ; and, if she 
231 



In Our Convent Days 

were constitutionally incapable of dis 
tinguishing between wilful murder 
and crossing one s legs in class, she 
would have scorned to carry any of 
our misdemeanours to Madame Bou- 
ron s tribunal. We felt that she had 
companionable qualities, rendered in 
some measure worthless by her ad 
vanced years; for, after all, adults 
have but a narrow field in which to 
exercise their gifts. There was a 
pleasant distinction in walking by 
Madame Dane s side up and down 
Mulberry Avenue, even in the un 
familiar society of Adelaide Harrison, 
and Mary Rawdon, who was a green 
ribbon, and Ellie Plunkett, who was 
head of the roll of honour; but it would 
have been much better fun to have 
held aloof, and have played that we 
were English gypsies, and that Ma 
dame Dane was Ulrica of the Banded 
Brow, just then our favourite char 
acter in fiction. 

232 



The Game of Love 

Ulrica sounds, I am aware, as if she 
belonged in the Castle of Udolpho; 
but she was really a virtuous and 
nobly spoken outlaw in a story called 
" Wild Times," which was the most 
exciting book the only madly ex 
citing book the convent library 
contained. It dealt with the religious 
persecutions of Elizabeth s glorious 
but stringent reign, and was a good, 
thorough-going piece of partisan fic 
tion, like Fox s " Book of Martyrs," or 
Wodrow s " Sufferings of the Church 
of Scotland." I cannot now remember 
why Ulrica s brow was banded, I 
believe she had some dreadful mark 
upon it, but she was always allud 
ing to its screened condition in words 
of thrilling intensity. " Seek not to 
know the secret of my shame. Never 
again shall the morning breeze nor 
the cool breath of evening fan Ulrica s 
brow." " Tear from my heart all 
hope, all pity, all compunction; but 
2 33 



In Our Convent Days 

venture not to lift the veil which 
hides forever from the eye of man the 
blighting token of Ulrica s shame." 
We loved to picture this mysterious 
lady whose life, I hasten to say, 
was most exemplary as tall, high- 
shouldered, and stern, like Madame 
Dane; and we merged the two char 
acters together in a very agreeable 
and convincing way. It enraptured 
us to speak of the mistress of the 
Second Cours as "Ulrica," to tell 
one another that some day we should 
surely forget, and call her by that 
name (than which nothing was less 
likely), and to wonder what she would 
say and do if she found out the liberty 
we had taken. 

A little private diversion of this 
kind was all the more necessary be 
cause the whole business of loving 
was essentially a public affair. Not 
that we were capable of voicing our 
affections, Marie alone had the gift 
234 



The Game of Love 

of expression, but we ranged our 
selves in solid ranks for and against 
the favourites of the hour. The system 
had its disadvantages. It deprived us 
of individual distinction. I was con 
firmed that winter, and, having found 
out that Madame Dane s Christian 
name was Theresa, I resolved to take 
it for my confirmation name, feeling 
that this was a significant proof of 
tenderness. Unfortunately, three other 
children came to the same conclusion, 
Ellie Plunkett was one of them, 
and the four Theresas made such an 
impression upon the Archbishop that 
he congratulated us in a really beau 
tiful manner upon our devotion to 
the great saint whose name we 
had chosen, and whose example, he 
trusted, would be our beacon light. 

As for my deeper and more absorb 
ing passion for Julia Reynolds, I 
could not hope to separate it, or at 
least to make her separate it, from the 
235 



In Our Convent Days 

passions of her other satellites. She re 
garded us all with a cold and impar 
tial aversion, which was not without 
excuse, in view of our reprehensible 
behaviour. Three times a day the 
Second Cours filed through the First 
Cours classroom, on its way to the re 
fectory. The hall was always empty, 
as the older girls preceded us to our 
meals; but at noon their hats and 
coats and shawls were laid neatly out 
upon their chairs, ready to be put on 
as soon as dinner was eaten. Julia 
Reynolds had a black and white plaid 
shawl, the sight of which goaded us 
to frenzy. If Madame Dane s eyes 
were turned for one instant from our 
ranks, some daring child shot madly 
across the room, wrenched a bit of 
fringe from this beloved shawl, and, 
returning in triumph with her spoil, 
wore it for days (I always lost mine) 
pinned as a love-knot to the bib of 
her alpaca apron. Viola Milton per- 
236 



The Game of Love 

formed this feat so often that she 
became purveyor of fringe to less au 
dacious girls, and gained honour and 
advantages thereby. Not content with 
such vandalism, she conceived the 
daring project of stealing a lock of hair. 
She hid herself in a music room, and, 
when Julia went by to her music les 
son, stole silently behind her, and 
snipped off the end of one of her long 
brown braids. This, with the generos 
ity of a highwayman, she distributed, 
in single hairs, to all who clamoured for 
them. To me she gave half a dozen, 
which I gummed up for safe-keeping 
in an envelope, and never saw again. 
It was a little trying that Viola 
certainly, as I have made plain, the 
least deserving of us all should have 
been the only child who ever obtained 
a word of kindness from our divinity. 
But this was the irony of fate. Three 
days after the rape of the lock, she 
was sent to do penance for one of her 
237 



In Our Convent Days 

many misdemeanours by sitting under 
the clock in the corridor, a post which, 
for some mysterious reason, was con 
secrated to the atonement of sin. In 
an hour she returned, radiant, beati 
fied. Julia Reynolds had gone by on 
her way to the chapel; and seeing the 
little solitary figure which looked 
pathetic, though it was n t had given 
her a fleeting smile, and had said 
" Poor Olie," as she passed. 

This was hard to bear. It all came, 
as I pointed out acrimoniously to 
Tony, of Viola s being at least a head 
shorter than she had any business to 
be at ten years old, and of her having 
such absurdly thin legs, and great, 
melancholy eyes. Of course people 
felt sorry for her, whereas they might 
have known they ought to have 
known that she was incapable of 
being abashed. She would just as 
soon have sat astride the clock as 
under it. 



The Game of Love 

One advantage, however, I pos 
sessed over all competitors. I took 
drawing lessons, and so did Julia 
Reynolds. Twice a week I sat at a 
table near her, and spent an hour and 
a half very pleasantly and profitably 
in watching all she did. I could not 
draw. My mother seemed to think 
that because I had no musical talent, 
and never in my life was able to tell 
one note nor indeed one tune 
from another, I must, by way of ad 
justment, have artistic qualities. Mr. 
James Payn was wont to say that his 
gift for mathematics consisted mainly 
of distaste for the classics. On pre 
cisely the same principle, I was put 
to draw because I could not play or 
sing. An all-round incapacity was, 
in those primitive days, a thing not 
wholly understood. 

The only branch of my art I ac 
quired to perfection was the sharp 
ening of pencils and crayons ; and, 
2 39 



In Our Convent Days 

having thoroughly mastered this ac 
complishment, I ventured in a moment 
of temerity to ask Julia if I might 
sharpen hers. At first she decisively 
refused; but a week or two later, 
seeing the deftness of my work, and 
having a regard for her own hands, 
she relented, and allowed me this 
privilege. Henceforward I felt that 
my drawing lessons were not given 
in vain. Even Dr. Eckhart s unspar 
ing condemnation of my sketches 
which were the feeblest of failures 
could not destroy my content. Love 
was with me a stronger emotion than 
vanity. I used to look forward all 
week to those two happy afternoons 
when I was graciously permitted to 
waste my time and blacken my fingers 
in humble and unrequited service. 

Julia drew beautifully. She ex 
celled in every accomplishment, as in 
every branch of study. She sang, she 
played, she painted, she danced, with 
240 



The Game of Love 

bewildering ease and proficiency. 
French and Latin presented no stum 
bling-blocks to her. The heights and 
abysses of composition were for her 
a level and conquered country. Logic 
and geometry were, so to speak, her 
playthings. We were bewildered by 
such universality of genius, some 
thing like Michael Angelo s, and 
when I remember that, in addition to 
these legitimate attainments, she was 
the most gifted actress on our convent 
stage, I am at a loss now to under 
stand why the world is not ringing 
with her name. 

Certain it is that she was the pride 
of Dr. Eckhart s heart, the one solace 
of his harassed and tormented life. 
He was an elderly German, irascible 
in disposition, and profane in speech. 
His oaths were Teutonic oaths, but 
were not, on that account, the less 
thunderous. He taught music and 
drawing, those were not the days 
241 



In Our Convent Days 

of specialists, so all the time that 
his ears were not vexed with weak 
and tremulous discords, his eyes were 
maddened by crippled lines, and sheets 
of smutty incompetence. The result 
of such dual strain was that his spirit, 
which could hardly have been gentle 
at the outset, had grown savage as a 
Tartar s. When Christopher North 
ventured to say that the wasp is the 
only one of God s creatures perpetu 
ally out of temper, it was because he 
never knew Carlyle or Dr. Eckhart. 

This irate old gentleman was an 
admirable teacher, or at least he 
would have been an admirable teacher 
if we could have enjoyed eternal youth 
in which to profit by his lessons, to 
master step by step the deep-laid foun 
dations of an art. As it was, few of us 
ever got beyond the first feeble paces, 
beyond those prolonged beginnings 
which had no significance in our eyes. 
Yet we knew that other children, chil- 
242 



The Game of Love 

dren not more richly endowed by na 
ture than we were, made real pictures 
that, with careful retouching, were 
deemed worthy of frames, and of 
places upon parental walls. Adelaide 
Harrison had a friend who went to a 
fashionable city school, and who had 
sent her in proof of wide attain 
ments a work of art which filled us 
with envy and admiration. It was a 
winter landscape ; a thatched cottage 
with wobbly walls, a bit of fence, and 
two quite natural-looking trees, all 
drawn on a prepared surface of blue 
and brown, blue on top for the 
sky, brown underneath for the earth. 
Then triumph of realism this sur 
face was scraped away in spots with 
a penknife, and the white cardboard 
thus brought to light presented a 
startling resemblance to snow, 
snow on the cottage roof, snow on 
the branches of the trees, patches of 
snow on the ground. It seemed easy 
2 43 



In Our Convent Days 

to do, and was beautiful when done, 
a high order of art, and particularly 
adapted, by reason of its wintriness, 
for Christmas gifts. I urged Adelaide 
to show it to Dr. Eckhart, and to ask 
him if we might not do something like 
it, instead of wasting our young lives, 
and possibly some hidden genius, in 
futile attempts to draw an uninspiring 
group of cones and cylinders. Ade 
laide, who was not without courage, 
and whose family had a high opinion 
of her talents, undertook this danger 
ous commission, and at our next les 
son actually proffered her request. 

Dr. Eckhart glared like an angry 
bull. He held the landscape out at 
arm s length, turning it round and 
round, as if uncertain which was earth 
and which was heaven. " And that," 
he said, indicating with a derisive 
thumb a spot of white, " what, may 
I ask, is that?" 

"Snow," said Adelaide. 
244 



The Game of Love 

"Snow!" with a harsh cackle. 
"And do we then scratch in the 
ground like hens for snow? Eh! tell 
me that! Like hens ?" And he laughed, 
softened in some measure by an ap 
preciation of his own wit. 

Adelaide stood her ground. But 
she thought it as well to have some 
one stand by her side. " Agnes wants 
to do a picture, too," she said. 

Dr. Eckhart gasped. If I had in 
timated a desire to build a cathedral, 
or write an epic, or be Empress of 
India, he could not have been more 
astounded. "L audace, Paudace, et 
toujours 1 audace." Words failed him, 
but, reaching over, he picked up my 
drawing-board, and held it aloft as 
one might hold a standard; held it 
rigidly, and contemplated for at least 
three minutes the wavering outlines 
of my work. Most of the class natu 
rally looked at it too. The situation 
was embarrassing, and was made no 
2 45 



In Our Convent Days 

easier when, after this prolonged expo 
sure, my board was replaced with a 
thump upon the table, and Dr. Eckhart 
said in a falsetto imitation of Ade 
laide s mincing tones: "Agnes wants 
to do a picture, too." Then without 
another word of criticism no more 
was needed he moved away, and 
sat down by Julia Reynolds s side. 
She alone had never lifted her eyes 
during this brief episode, had never 
deemed it worthy of attention. I felt 
grateful for her unconcern, and yet 
was humbled by it. It illustrated my 
sterling insignificance. Nothing that 
I did, or failed to do, could possibly 
interest her, even to the raising of an 
eyelid. At least, so I thought then. I 
was destined to find out my mistake. 
It was through Elizabeth that the 
new discovery was made. All our in 
spirations, all the novel features of our 
life, owed their origin to her. The 
fertility of her mind was inexhaust- 
246 



The Game of Love 

ible. A few days after this memorable 
drawing lesson she drew me into a 
corner at recreation, and, rolling up 
her sleeve, showed me her arm. There, 
scratched on the smooth white skin, 
bloody, unpleasant, and distinct, were 
the figures 150. 

I gazed entranced. A hundred and 
fifty was Madame Dane s number (the 
nuns as well as the girls all had num 
bers), and for months past it had been 
the emblem of the cult. We never 
saw it without emotion. When it 
stood at the head of a page, we always 
encircled it in a heart. When we 
found it in our arithmetics, we en 
circled it in a heart. We marked all 
our books with these three figures set 
in a heart, and we cut them upon any 
wooden substance that came to hand, 
not our polished and immaculate 
desks, but rulers, slate borders, and 
the swings. And now, happiest of 
happy devices, Elizabeth had offered 
247 



In Our Convent Days 

her own flesh as a background for 
these beloved numerals. 

The spirit of instant emulation fired 
my soul. I thought of Julia s number, 
twenty-one, and burned with desire to 
carve it monumentally upon myself. 
" What did you do it with? " I asked. 

"A pin, a penknife, and a sharp 
ened match," answered Elizabeth 
proudly. 

I shuddered. These surgical instru 
ments did not invite confidence ; but 
not for worlds would I have acknow 
ledged my distaste. Besides, it is sweet 
to suffer for those we love. I resolved 
to out-herod Herod, and use my hand 
instead of my arm as a commemora 
tive tablet. There was a flamboyant 
publicity about this device which ap 
pealed to my Latin blood. 

It did not appeal to Elizabeth, and 

she offered the practical suggestion 

that publicity, when one is not a free 

agent, sometimes entails unpleasant 

248 



The Game of Love 

consequences. My arm was, so to 
speak, my own, and I might do with 
it what I pleased; but my hand was 
open to scrutiny, and there was every 
reason to fear that Madame Dane 
would disapprove of the inscription. 
Her arguments were unanswerable, 
but their very soundness repelled me. 
I was in no humour for sobriety. 

I did the work very neatly that 
night in my alcove, grateful, before it 
was over, that there were only two 
figures in twenty-one. The next day 
Viola followed my example. I knew 
she would. There was no escaping 
from Viola. Tony cut seventy-seven, 
Ella Holrook s number, upon her arm. 
Annie Churchill and Lilly heroically 
cut a hundred and fifty on theirs. The 
fashion had been set. 

In three days half the Second Cours 

bore upon their suffering little bodies 

these gory evidences of their love. 

And for four days no one in authority 

249 



In Our Convent Days 

knew. Yet we spent our time delight 
fully in examining one another s nu 
merals, and freshening up our own. 
Like young savages, we incited one 
another to painful rites, and to bloody 
excesses. That Viola s hand and mine 
should for so long have escaped detec 
tion seems miraculous; but Madame 
Dane, though keenly observant, was 
a trifle near-sighted. She may have 
thought the scratches accidental. 

On the fifth morning, as I came out 
from Mass, Madame Rayburn s eye 
lighted by chance upon the marks. 
She was not near-sighted, and she 
never mistook one thing for another. 
A single glance told her the stor} 7 . 
A single instant decided her course 
of action. "Agnes," she said, and I 
stepped from the ranks, and stood by 
her side. I knew what she had seen; 
but I did not know what she proposed 
doing, and my heart beat uneasily. 
We waited until the First Cours filed 
250 



The Game of Love 

out of the chapel. Last, because tall 
est, came Ella Holrook and Julia 
Reynolds. " Julia," said Madame Ray- 
burn, and she, too, left the ranks and 
joined us. No word was spoken until 
the long line of girls burning with 
futile curiosity, but too well trained 
even to turn their heads had passed 
through the corridor. Then Madame 
Rayburn took my hand in her firm 
grasp and held it up to view. " Look 
at this, Julia," she said. 

I had supposed it impossible to 
move Julia Reynolds to wrath, to 
arouse in her any other sentiment 
than the cold contempt, " la fierte 
honorable et digne," which she cul 
tivated with so much care. But I 
had not calculated on this last straw 
of provocation following upon all 
she had previously endured. When 
she saw her number on my hand, she 
crimsoned, and her eyes grew dark. 
She was simply and unaffectedly 
251 



In Our Convent Days 

angry, what we in unguarded con 
versation called " mad." 

" I won t have it," she said passion 
ately. "I won t! It s too much to be 
borne. I won t put up with it another 
hour. Why should I be tormented all 
my life by these idiotic children? 
Look at my shawl, how they have 
torn off half the fringe. It is n t fit to 
be worn. Look at my desk! I never 
open it without finding it littered with 
their trash. Do I want their old flan 
nel penwipers ? Do I want their stupid 
pincushions and needle-cases? Can I 
possibly want book-markers of per 
forated cardboard, with Julia worked 
on them in blue sewing silk? I ve 
had three this week. Do they think I 
don t know my own name, and that 
I have to be reminded of it by them ? 
They have no business to go near my 
desk. They have no business to put 
anything in it. And I don t want their 
candy. And I don t want them to 
252 



The Game of Love 

darn my stockings in hard lumps. 
I Ve never encouraged one of them 
in my life." (Alas! Julia, this was 
your undoing.) " I Ve never spoken to 
one of them. I did let her" (a scorn 
ful nod at me) "sharpen my crayons 
in drawing class, and I suppose this 
impertinence is the result. I suppose 
she thinks she is a favourite. Well, 
she is n t. And this is going a good 
deal too far. My number belongs to 
me personally, just as much as my 
name does. I won t have it paraded 
around the Second Cours. It stands 
for me in the school, it s mine, and 
she has no right to cut it on her horrid 
little hand." 

There was a moment s silence. 
Julia s breath was spent, and Madame 
Rayburn said nothing. She only 
looked at me. 

Now I possessed one peculiarity 
which had always to be reckoned 
with. Timid, easily abashed, and re- 
253 



In Our Convent Days 

duced to nothingness by a word that 
hurt, I was sure, if pushed too far, to 
stand at bay. Nor had nature left me 
altogether defenceless in a hard world. 
Julia s first glance had opened my 
eyes to the extravagance of my be 
haviour (Oh, that I had followed Eliza 
beth s counsel!), her first reproaches 
had overwhelmed me with shame. 
But the concentrated scorn with which 
she flung her taunts in my face, and 
that final word about irry horrid hand, 
stiffened me into resistance. My anger 
matched her own. " All right," I said 
shortly; " I 11 scratch it out." 

Madame Rayburn laughed softly. 
She had brought upon me this dire 
humiliation because she thought my 
folly merited the punishment; but she 
was not ill-pleased to find me undis 
mayed. As for Julia, she bent her 
keen eyes on my face (the first time 
she had ever really looked at me), and 
something that was almost a smile 
2 54 



The Game of Love 

softened the corners of her mouth. 
It was evident that the idea of scratch 
ing out what was already so deeply 
scratched in pleased her wayward 
fancy. When she spoke again, it was 
in a different voice, and though her 
words were unflattering, her manner 
was almost kind. " If you are not 
altogether a fool," she said, "and that 
sounds as if you were not, why do 
you behave like one ? " 

To this query I naturally made no 
reply. It was not easy to answer, and 
besides, at the first softening of her 
mood, my wrath had melted away, 
carrying my courage with it. I was 
perilously near tears. Madame Ray- 
burn dropped my hand, and gave me 
a little nocl. It meant that I was free, 
and I scudded like a hare through the 
corridor, through the First Cours 
classroom, and down into the refec 
tory. There the familiar aspect of 
breakfast, the familiar murmur of 
255 



In Our Convent Days 

" Pain, s il vous plait," restored my 
equanimity. I met the curious glances 
cast at me with that studied uncon 
cern, that blankness of expression 
which we had learned from Elizabeth, 
and which was to us what the turtle 
shell is to the turtle, a refuge from 
inquisitors. I had no mind that any 
one should know the exact nature of 
my experience. 

That night I made good my word, 
and erased the twenty-one after a 
thorough-going fashion I hardly like 
to recall. But when the operation 
was over, and I curled up in my bed, 
I said to myself that although I should 
never again wear this beloved num 
ber upon hand or arm, it would be 
engraved forever on my heart. As 
long as I lived, I should feel for Julia 
Reynolds the same passionate and 
unalterable devotion. Perhaps, some 
time in the future, I should have the 
happiness of dying for her. I was ar- 
256 



The Game of Love 

ranging the details of this charming 
possibility, and balancing in my mind 
the respective delights of being bitten 
while defending her by a mad 
dog, or being drowned in mid-ocean, 
having given her my place in the life 
boat, and was waving her a last fare^ 
well from the decks of the sinking 
ship, when I finally fell asleep. 

The next morning was Sunday, the 
never-to-be-forgotten Sunday, when 
Marianus for the first time served 
Mass. And as I watched him, breath 
less with delight, Julia s image grew 
pale, as pale as that of Isabel Summers, 
and faded quietly away. I looked 
at Elizabeth and Tony. They, too, 
were parting with illusions. Their sore 
little arms might now be permitted 
to heal, for their faithless hearts no 
longer bore a scar. The reign of our 
lost loves was over. The sovereignty 
of Marianus had begun. 



Ateftffe 

CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
U . S . A 



THI 



S BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
STAMPED BELOW 

Books not returned on time are subject to a fine of 
50c per volume after the third day overdue, increasing 
to $1.00 per volume after the sixth day. Books not in 
demand may be renewed if application is made before 
expiration of loan period. 



DEC 6-t928 
FEB 13 192S 

SEP 16 1936 
SEP 25 1942 

DEC 619806 



50i-7, 27 



- BERKELEY LIBRARIES 




UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 



